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Umber 119. SUBSCRIPTION PRICE, $12.00 PER YEAR. 

CASSELL’S SUNSHINE SERIES, ISSUED SEMI-MONTHLY, 


July 6, 1892. 

/ 


FAITH 


BY 

DON ARMANDO TALACIO VALDES 


TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY 

ISABEL F. HAPGOOD 


NEW YORK 

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 

104 & 106 FOURTH AVENUE 


Entered at the Post Office, New York, N. Y., as Second Class Matter, Mayli, 1888. 


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69 


FAITH 


BY l/ 

DON ARMANDO PALACIO VALDES 


TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY 

ISABEL F. HAPGOOD 

I 



NEW YORK 


JliL ^ f892 

Ti ts-^y 



0 


CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 2 *^ 


104 & 106 Fourth Avenue 


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Copyright, 1892, by 

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY. 


All rights reserved. 




c,> lid 

c 

•) 


THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS, 
RAHWAY, N, J. 


FAITH 


I. 

Not another person could be contained in the 
church. To tell the truth, it would not have con- 
tained even those who were within it, had each one 
of them occupied the space which, by natural right, 
the right which nature teaches all animals, belonged 
to him. But, at that moment, not only was this 
right infringed, but the law of impenetrability of 
bodies was violated in the most barefaced manner. 
Don Peregrin Casanova, a person of importance in 
the town, and who, up to that time, had rigorously 
observed the law on all solemn occasions, profane 
as well as religious, now had the knees of another 
rational biped, six feet in height, thrust into his 
loins, which caused him convulsive movements in 
the stomach, and a lively sense of uneasiness, accom- 
panied by a profuse perspiration. Doha Teodora, 
a maiden lady of fifty summers, very modest, very 
neat, very pretty, who all her life had avoided con- 
tact of every sort, saw herself obliged to feel upon 
her the feet of Osuna the humpback, a person of 
the most evil antecedents, who would not remain 
quiet for a moment, Don Caspar de Silva, a poet 


2 


FAITH. 


who was famous in town as much for his corns 
as for his verses, underwent the Caesarian operation, 
performed with great dexterity upon one of them 
by the eldest son of Dofta Trinidad. In like man- 
ner, another party of respectable neighbors experi- 
enced annoyances without number on that memor- 
able morning, on which a young man of their town 
intoned the mass for the first time. 

As is always the case, there were exceptions for 
the favored. In a privileged position, between the 
wooden railing and the altar, stood not only the 
godmother of the priest and the ladies who had 
paid for his education, but others who were counte- 
nanced by no right whatever ; and what is most 
worthy of censure, some of these persons were men. 
The new clergyman was almost a child in appear- 
ance ; he had blue eyes, deep and melancholy, a 
skin as white and pearly as that of a woman, fair 
hair, a slender, delicate body. Emotion now 
rendered him very pale; this made his spiritual 
countenance more interesting. The rector of 
Peftascosa and Don Narciso, a bold chaplain, a 
native of Sarrid, who had been several years in 
town, assisted him in the capacity of deacon and 
sub-deacon. 

A dull murmur resounded through the church, 
caused by the whispers of the women disputing 
with each other over places, or communicating to 
each other their impressions, and by the exclamations 
and sighs of discomfort arising from the men. The 
heat grew more intolerable every moment. D. 
Peregrin gave vent through hi§ trumpet-like nostril^ 


FAITH. 


3 


to some snorts resembling those of a locomotive, 
and raised himself on the tips of his toes, without 
succeeding in seeing anything. If he had only 
possessed the stature of his brother Juan ! But the 
latter, who might just as well have stood behind, 
was perfectly accommodated in the chancel, between 
the curates, the mayor, and several members of the 
council, which aroused in his heart a violent feeling 
of envy that suffocated him even more than the 
knees of the robust person who stood behind him. 
Such was his fate. Although he considered himself 
much more intelligent than his brother, and had 
served for many years in the public administration 
of various provinces in Spain, and had read Cesar 
Cantu’s “Universal History,” and Lafuente’s 
“ History of Spain,” without skipping a single 
volume, and possessed the same amount of fortune, 
with the additional pension of 2500 pesetas a year, 
it is a fact that D. Juan, without ever having quitted 
Peflascosa, or having read anything in his life 
beyond the periodical to which he was a subscriber, 
enjoyed much more prestige in the town. This, in 
the opinion of D. Peregrin, proceeded from nothing 
but his stature. In fact, D. Juan Casanova was a 
tall, lank man, with an aquiline nose, large eyes 
with drooping lids and an imposing glance, a vener- 
able bald spot, short white whiskers, and a measured 
and majestic gait. These extraordinary gifts, united 
to a measured and prudent manner of speech, had 
secured him the respect and even the veneration of 
his fellow-townsmen. Great, then, was the amaze- 
ment of the latter when, on the arrival of D. Peregrin 


4 


FAITH. 


from Andalucia, where he had lately been employed, 
they heard him call his brother ignorant and stupid, 
in a discussion in which he took part at the club 
concerning the tax on tobacco. They lived together, 
both being bachelors, and delivered over to the 
despotic care of Dofia Mariquita, their house- 
keeper and absolute master of their lives and 
property. 

Don Juan, by dint of casting his severe and 
majestic glance over the sea of heads, which ex- 
tended from the railing to the door of the temple, 
hit upon the shining bald spot of his pigmy of a 
brother. Perceiving the suffering depicted in the 
latter’s countenance, he hastened nobly to make 
signs to him that he should advance, offering him a 
seat on the bench which he occupied. But D. 
Peregrin, chancing to notice the impossibility of 
taking a single step, or suffocated with the wrath 
which had been gradually increasing, responded 
with an angry and disdainful grimace, which sur- 
prised his unhappy brother, and completely deprived 
him of any desire to insist. 

“What is it?” inquired D. Martin de las Casas, 
who sat on his left. “ Does not D. Peregrin wish 
to come ? ” 

“ He sees that it is impossible. Who could break 
through that wall of flesh ?” 

“Anybody. You shall see how I will go thitherand 
fetch him back with me,” replied D. Martin, a man 
of energetic character and fertile in expedients, 
preparing to rise. D. Juan held him back by his 
coat sleeve. 


FAITH. 


5 


^‘No; let him alone. Perhaps he does not wish 
to come. You know his character.” 

“ But, my dear fellow, ’tis no dainty dish to stand 
there sweating coffee with milk ! ” he replied with 
asperity, shrugging his shoulders. 

The church was one of the most spacious to be 
seen in a town. The truth is that Peftascosa, 
although it contains seven or eight thousand souls, 
has no other temple than this. Possibly, on account 
of its being extremely spacious, the sacristan and 
his assistants do not wish to undertake the task of 
cleaning it in detail. Its aspect is murky and dirty. 
From its walls, which have not been whitewashed for 
many years, hang chains, somber and bunglingly 
made frames, a multitude of legs, arms, heads in 
yellow wax, and still another and greater mass of 
little barks and boats, which the faith of the sailors 
or their families have brought hither in memory of 
some danger miraculously avoided. But, in honor of 
the function which was being celebrated, it had been 
adorned, so far as was possible. Garlands of flowers 
surrounded the principal altars, which were covered 
with freshly ironed white cloths. Some large cur- 
tains had been hung upon the panels of the wall in 
the vicinity of the chief altar, and a part of the floor 
had been covered with the carpet, dirty and torn in 
many places, which had shone on solemn occasions 
for the last forty years. Dofla Eloisa, the godmother 
of the new priest, and the ladies who had seconded 
her in her efforts to furnish him with a career, had 
added some dainty trifles to the rough routine 
adornments of the sacristan. Huge bunches of 


6 


FAITH, 


flowers, placed in artistic vases, taken from the best 
houses in town, damask curtains forming a pavilion 
over the altar, candelabras, and chandeliers. Natur- 
ally, the point to which they had directed their spe- 
cial attention and efforts was the dress of the young 
priest. An alb, of the finest batiste, exquisitely 
embroidered ; a stoic ; a chasuble of the richest cloth 
of gold which could be found in the capital ; a 
chalice, also of gold, with several precious stones. 
The generous ladies had not begrudged their 
money to complete or crown the work of charity 
in which they had been engaged for many years. 

Everyone in town remembered it, some through 
having been present, others through having heard 
it frequently narrated. A little more than twenty 
years before, there had been in Pefiascosa a deep- 
sea fisherman named Mariano Lastra, whom all his 
comrades esteemed for his honorable sentiments 
and his peaceable character. This fisherman per- 
ished, with eight others of the crew of the launch 
in which he was, in consequence of a mild breeze 
of small importance. Mariano had married two 
years previously, and left a child a few months old. 
The widow was a good and honorable young 
woman, but with scant disposition for work, and, 
moreover, she did not enjoy much health. She was 
hard put to it. to subsist. The child was a great 
hindrance in any sort of labor. She devoted her- 
self to working about in houses, discharging the 
lowest and most menial of offices, fetching water 
and scrubbing the floors, doing errands, the only 
thing which she was capable of doing, since she 


FAITH. 


7 


knew no craft. But the time came when her 
strength deserted her ; her health, each day more 
frail, rendered her useless for work. She was dis- 
charged from several houses. Others continued to 
employ her out of charity, although less frequently. 
She and her child began to suffer hunger. 

One day she was discharged from the only house 
where she still helped. 

Basilisa,” the lady said to her, you can no 
longer fetch water and scrub floors. You are kill- 
ing yourself, yet you do not succeed in doing your 
work as you should. I must find another helper. 
I should be very glad to continue to employ you, 
but I am not rich, as you know. We have many 
expenses.” 

“ Yes, Sefiora ; yes, I understand,” replied the un- 
happy woman, with a humble and forced smile. 

You have done too much for me.” 

She quitted this house, her last refuge, with heart 
distressed and trembling limbs. She reached the 
wretched hut which she inhabited in the suburbs. 
Her son, in his cradle, was sleeping the sweet and 
serene sleep of the angels. The wretched woman 
fell on her knees and sobbed for a long time. Rais- 
ing her head at last, she said to herself, as she 
gazed on her child : 

“No, you shall not go to the almshouse.” 

Several of her acquaintances, and even one lady, 
had advised her to do this; but the idea of abandon- 
ing her son to the hands of sordid women and brutal 
employees had always inspired her with horror. 
She had struggled bravely so long as she was able. 


8 


FAITH. 


often depriving herself of necessary sustenance in 
order that she might feed her child, who was now 
about three years of age. Nevertheless, she had 
come to the end of her combat, and she had been 
vanquished. The only resource left to her was to 
beg alms ; but, in addition to the terror which this 
caused her, she comprehended very well that her 
days were numbered. And when she was dead, 
what would become of this little creature? 

She meditated for a space, her dry eyes riveted 
upon her child, repeating from time to time the 
same phrase : 

“You shall not go to the almshouse ! ” 

She soon rose, animated by a fatal determination, 
kissed her son passionately, until she waked him, 
wrapped him up in a mantle, and, taking him in her 
arms, left the house. 

It was the twilight hour. From the height of 
the Gusanera, where Basilisa lived, the fishing boats 
could already be seen approaching the pier. A 
crowd was waiting for them. Many people were 
also hastening across the square, and along the 
broad street which runs from it to the church, on 
the seashore. Basilisa directed her steps to the 
highway of Rodillero, which skirts the opposite 
shore of the little cove directly facing Pefiascosa, 
and hastened on, almost at a run. 

“ Why do you run, mamma ? Whither are we 
going?” asked the child, caressing her face with 
his tiny hands. 

“We are going to heaven, my darling,” replied 
the unhappy woman, her eyes clouded with tears. 


FAITH. 


9 


“ Are we going with papa ? ' 

She could not answer; a lump came in her throat. 

“ Are we going with papa?" the little boy per- 
sisted. 

She halted a moment to regain her breath. 

“ Yes, we are going to see him, my pet," she said 
at length. “ Don’t you wish to go to heaven with 
him ? " 

“ No ; I wish to be with you." 

And at the same time he pressed her neck with 
his loving arms, and covered her face with kisses. 

‘‘ Why do you cry, mamma ? " he asked, surprised 
to taste the bitterness of her tears on his lips. “ Is 
anything the matter with you ? Take my trumpet." 

And he offered her one of lead, which had cost 
Basilisa two cuartos. Gil did not understand exist- 
ence unless entangled with something, and he 
thought that the greatest misfortune which could 
weigh upon a human being was to have his hands 
empty. 

His mother clasped him to her breast, showered 
his rosy cheeks with kisses, and continued her 
course. On arriving at a certain spot, where the 
highway parted from the shore to turn inland, she 
quitted it and took a little path which led to the 
sea. She reached the lofty and gloomy cliffs which 
surround it at this point. She laid her son on the 
ground, and, kneeling down, she uttered a prayer be- 
tween repressed sobs, which could not have reached 
the ear of the Most High, since it was not directed 
in proper form. 

Night had almost completely fallen. The sea 


lO FAITH. 

lay motionless, dark, waiting for the tears of this 
unhappy woman to come, like so many others, to 
augment the bitter abundance of its waves. On the 
further side of the cove, the silhouette of the pier 
was visible, and of three or four tenders which 
usually lay at anchor near it. The group of fishing 
boats, a little distance off, was in motion, and 
already resounded with the cries of the women who 
were busy slitting up the fish, while their husbands 
were already resting gravely in some tavern of the 
town, Basilisa listened a moment to these familiar 
sounds. She, too, had waited for her husband in 
former days, and caressed him with her glance on 
his arrival ; had taken from his hand his waterproof 
coat, his box of implements, and his basket of pro- 
visions, and carried them cheerfully home. Mariano 
arrived shortly after, and seated himself close to 
the fire, dandling in his arms the delicate child, 
which was only a few months old. 

The widow remained for a long time gazing at- 
tentively at the group on the shore, which now ap- 
peared like a formless and motionless mass. Her 
son, seated on the turf, amused himself by filling 
his trumpet with dirt. She soon came to him, took 
him in her weak arms, and raw toward the brink of 
the precipice, 

“ Mamma, where are we going ? ” screamed the 
child. 

The reply, if she made one, must have been to 
heaven. She leaped violently to the bottom of the 
abyss. In her fall upon the rocks of the shore her 
skull was shattered ; she was killed. The child was 


FAITH, 


II 


miraculously saved. The bosom from which he had 
sprung now served him as an elastic support, and 
prevented his being dashed to pieces. 

An aged sailor, who was passing along among 
these cliffs in search of cuttle-fish, heard the crash 
and rendered the first succor to the child. He ran 
to give information ; the spot was soon swarming 
with people. The event produced a deep impres- 
sion. The women wept and passed the tender 
child from hand to hand, lavishing upon him a 
thousand caresses. Mhny offered to adopt him, and 
a dispute arose as to who should take him. When 
the ladies of the town were informed, they were 
much affected, and also desired to take charge of 
the orphan. The wives of the fishermen then re- 
nounced their claim on him in the interest of the 
latter. Accordingly, he remained in the care of 
Dofia Eloisa, the wife of D. Martin de las Casas, 
seconded by six or eight other dames, who would 
not hear of giving up participation in so charitable 
a work. 

The childhood of Gil (for that was the orphan’s 
name), if it was not happy, was certainly not un- 
happy. His protectresses exercised over him a 
vigilance which was somewhat impertinent at times, 
and also rather humiliating, but always affectionate 
and well meaning. Although Dofia Eloisa took the 
principal part in it, they all united to pay for his 
board and rearing in the house of a married artisan 
who lived in the Gusanera, near the house in which 
the unhappy widow had dwelt. When he had at- 
tained the proper age they sent him to school. He 


12 


FAITH. 


gave signs of being a peaceable, reserved, sensible 
child, and began to learn his lessons very well. His 
seven or eight mammas took it upon themselves to 
question the teacher concerning hi^ conduct and 
application every time that they met him in the 
street, encouraging him to “ tighten the thumb- 
screws.” The master did, in fact, make a point of 
tightening them, reminding him at the same time, 
incessantly, in the presence of his fellow-students, 
of his orphaned state, his wretched condition, 
and the inevitable necessity he was under of 
showing himself humble and grateful to his bene- 
factresses. This humility was a thing which they 
never ceased to sing in his hearing in the town. 
Everyone who met him in the street, and conde- 
scended to lay his hand paternally on his head, 
said to him : 

“ Take care to be humble, be obedient, and sub- 
missive to the ladies who have taken charge of you 
through charity ; do you hear? Through charity.” 

And finally his school-fellows took it upon them- 
selves to admonish him constantly that he was an 
unfortunate wretch, without parents, fed by charity, 
and that he ought to be in the almshouse, not asso- 
ciating with the sons of distinguished tailors, ma- 
sons, shoemakers, and fashionable bakers, and other 
people no less prominent and worthy of respect. 

The son of the drowned man and the woman- 
suicide had humility in his heart, and if he had 
not had it, it would not have been easy to inculcate 
it upon him with the jests and scorn of his compan- 
ions, or the paternal blows of the master and of his 


FAITH, 


13 


protectresses; for all these persons considered that 
they had a right to love him, but to castigate him 
as well. His was a grateful and affectionate nature. 
He understood that he owed all his protectresses 
respect and affection, and he paid them this tribute. 
It was clear that, in the bottom of his heart, he felt 
preferences ; this is irremediable. He loved Doha 
Eloisa passionately. This good woman, to whom 
he owed the most, never scolded or punished him' 
nor even said an unpleasant word to him ; she 
treated with extreme gentleness, caressed him as 
though he were her son, and concealed or excused 
his petty pranks. 

When he reached the age of twelve, the ladies 
assembled in council, and deliberated as to what 
was to be done with the lad. The idea of dedicat- 
ing him to his father’s trade was unanimously re- 
jected. They considered various others, without 
coming to any agreement, until Doha Trinidad, 
the wife of D. Ramigio Fldrez, manufacturer of 
nutritious preserves, proposed to take him to their 
house in the capacity of errand boy. Nearly all 
assented to this proposition but Doha Eloisa, who 
was pained by it, representing to her friends that 
the lad had displayed aptitude for study, and that 
it would be a meritorious work to make a priest of 
him. The ladies adopted the idea with enthusiasm. 
Doha Trinidad alone, a very punctilous person, who 
lived to impose her will upon all the world, opposed 
it strongly, and withdrew in disgust from the meet- 
ing. The ladies dispensed with her consent, and 
settling upon a monthly sum, which they would 


M 


FAITH. 


contribute in shares, they dispatched the lad to the 
seminary of Lancia, the capital of the province 
where we find ourselves. 

Gil was a model seminarist, industrious, gentle, 
respectful, given to religious exercises, and exhibit- 
ing much fervor therein. The ladies found no oc- 
casion to do otherwise than congratulate themselves 
on their decision. When he came to pass his vaca- 
tions at Pefiascosa, he brought with him for each of 
them a card from the rector, testifying to the lat- 
ter’s satisfaction with the conduct and progress of 
the orphan. During the two or three months which 
he spent there, he rendered them various services, 
reviewing lessons with their sons, accompanying 
them in their prayers, or serving as their amanuen- 
sis, and so on. He lived in Dofia Eloisa’s house. 
Every summer he underwent a little change ; the 
youth was gradually transformed into a man. At 
last he omitted to come for three consecutive years, 
for the purpose of taking the final orders. The 
moment arrived for him to become a priest. When 
he made his appearance at length, one day, at Pefl- 
ascosa, in the garb of a priest, his presence caused 
a profound emotion in the hearts of his protec- 
tresses. All considered themselves as his mothers, 
and consequently authorized to weep with joy, and 
to fall affectionately into his arms. It is certain 
that these caressing unbosomings of affection gave 
rise to some altercations among them, because 
those who had shown themselves the least loving 
and tolerant toward the child were the most ex- 
treme now with the man. This annoyed Da. Eloisa, 


,FAITH. 


15 


Da. Teodora, and Da. Marciala, who had always 
treated him with gentleness, and even with fondness. 

The preparations for the first mass began. A 
strife of daintiness arose among them. Those who 
were rich, like Da. Eloisa and Da. Teodora, under- 
took to purchase .the chalice and more costly arti- 
cles, Those who were of moderate fortune, like 
Da. Rita, Da. Filomena, and others, made up for 
the lack of money by the skill of their hands, em- 
broidering the alb, the stole, and the altar cloth, 
which excited great admiration. The church was 
put in order, and not only these ladies, but many 
others, who were their friends, took part in adorn- 
ing it. It was an event of mark in Pefiascosa, not 
only on account of the quality of the persons who 
had defrayed the expenses of the young priest’s 
career, but, also, on account of the terrible circum- 
stances which had given rise to this protection. 
Da. Eloisa was appointed godmother to the offi- 
ciant, at the request of the latter. No one had a 
better right than she ; but all the rest thought 
they had as good a right, and this led to secret 
resentments, and to several disagreeable little 
remarks. 

The priest turned toward the people, and intoned, 
in a weak and trembling voice : 

“ Dominus vobiscum.” 

All the voices in the tribune, broken and infirm, 
responded, accompanied by the crash of the organ. 

“ Et cum spiritu tuo-0-0-0.” 

“ How white he is ! ” said a young working-girl to 
the companion at her side. 


i6 


FAITH. 


“He looks like a statue.” 

D. Narciso intoned the epistle in a sharp voice, 
elevating and lowering his tone, and listening to 
himself with pleasure. 

“ Heavens, how the chaplain is pluming him- 
self!” remarked the working-girl.. 

“Yes; you see the humpback’s daughter is here. 
He wishes to shine.” 

It was a matter for much remark in the town, that 
D. Narciso and Osuna’s daughter felt a mutual incli- 
nation, although only heterodox and malicious spirits 
dared to say it aloud. D. Narciso was, in truth, 
much more given to living among the weaker sex 
than among the stronger. No sooner had he arrived 
from Sarrid, three years previously, more or less, 
than he became the idol of the ladies of Pefiascosa 
because of his elegant bearing, which presented a 
strong contrast with the slovenliness of the greater 
part of the ecclesiastics in the town, because of his 
vivacious conversation, his jests, and, above all, be- 
cause of his fondness for being always with them — 
the women. He was very far from being handsome 
or graceful ; he was a man of about five and thirty 
years of age, thin, swarthy, with large feet with 
protuberant toe-joints, and very ugly teeth ; but he 
had succeeded in passing himself off as a man of 
humor. He never talked seriously to his devoted 
female friends. A comicality here, a comicality 
there, an endearing expression to this woman, a jest 
to that one, without ever experiencing the slightest 
embarrassment at finding himself the center of a 
numerous circle. On the contrary, D. Narciso took 


PAlTH. 


17 


extreme pleasure in this ; he enjoyed being encamped 
alone in the woman’s gallery. He directed the 
consciences of the majority of them, and permitted 
himself to reprimand them severely, at times, out- 
side the confessional. Almost all received his cor- 
rections submissively, even with pleasure, and if one 
did rebel momentarily, it was in order to ask pardon 
afterward. Moreover, D. Narciso was the regular 
guest of all festivities and gaudeainus of the ele- 
gant -society of Pefiascosa. He ate voraciously, and 
even boasted of it ; he drank after the same fashion, 
and when the dessert was served, he never failed to 
drink a health, accompanied by some couplet, which 
was nearly always tainted. For D. Narciso, who, on 
account of his ecclesiastical profession, could not 
permit himself jests referring to the relations of 
the sexes, thought that he had a right to launch the 
most disgusting remarks about the other miseries 
of the human body. And the ladies, strange to 
say, laughed and applauded, as though these had 
been the most wonderful bits of acuteness and 
ingeniousness. Two years after his arrival an ac- 
cident had occurred. As he was descending the 
staircase of a house, which he frequented assidu- 
ously, he broke his leg. It was said that the hus- 
band of the lady to whom the house belonged had 
assisted in this fall, because he was not in perfect ac- 
cord with the priest as to the hour and the occasion 
of the latter’s visits ; but the pious souls of Peftas- 
cosa instantly hastened to strangle this sacrilegious 
rumor. And, in proof of the indignation with 
which they rejected the insinuation, the most 


FAITH. 


i8 

prominent ladies in town constituted themselves 
nurses at his bedside, not leaving him alone an in- 
stant, relieving each other, night and day, at inter- 
vals of a few hours, as though they were standing 
guard over the Most Holy One. D. Narciso de- 
served these attentions of the fair sex. No one 
ever occupied himself with so much ardor and fer- 
vent zeal concerning the salvation of the beautiful 
half of humanity. Not only did he direct the con- 
sciences of all who best represented it in Peflascbsa, 
he fed his tender lambs with love, not omitting, 
nevertheless, to cast a stone at anyone of them 
Avho strayed, like the diligent shepherd that he was, 
and by dint of much vigilance, he had succeeded 
in founding an association, already established in 
many other quarters in Spain and abroad: the society 
of the Daughters of Mary. Only young, unmarried 
girls were allowed in this association. Such a privi- 
lege excited a vague displeasure, mingled with crav- 
ing, in the bosoms of the married women. They 
considered themselves humiliated by his exclusion. 
D. Narciso took advantage of this shadow of rivalry 
to keep them in better subjection. 

“Oh! ladies, you must not envy this privilege! 
You have a husband whom you must contemplate 
and serve.” 

He uttered these words in a little tone of irony 
which showed the secret hostility which the chaplain 
felt toward all husbands. The women, upon whom 
the charms of the latter no longer exercised any 
fascination, laughed in a forced and malicious way, 
as though to say, “ Yes, yes!” It was whispered 


FAITH. 


19 


that many were in love with him. Da. Marciala, the 
wife of the apothecary on the Square, had gone to 
Sarrio to carry him some stockings, when the priest 
was passing a little time with his family. Dofia 
Filomena, the widow of a lieutenant in the navy, 
made her only songs every day to help him in the 
mass. Nevertheless, a certain preference had been 
observed, on his part, for Obdulia, the daughter of 
Osuna, the steward of Montesinos. 

“But is it certain that they like each other ?’’ 
asked the young working-girl, when she heard her 
companion express herself thus plainly. 

“ I don’t knowy my dear ! What I can say is, that 
D. Narciso is never out of their house, and that 
many days from the window of my room I se& them 
running after each other in the garden of Montes- 
inos, playing at hide and seek. So much so that I 
told him about it.” 

“ You told him ! exclaimed the other in amaze- 
ment. 

“ Yes, child ; don’t you see, I go to confess to him. 
There was no help for it. I said to him : ‘ Look 
here, D. Narciso — do not be offended — but when I 
see you and Obdulia playing in the garden, I have 
suspicions 

'' Ave Mariay barbarity! And what did he 

say f 

“He fairly suffocated. Uf ! he began to say to 
me: ‘It is through you and others like you that 
priests lose credit and honor, and religion is falling 
into decay ! ’ He called me a bag of malice ; he said 
that I seem.ed to be a liar, that such atrocities oc- 


20 


FAITH. 


curred to me, and he said this and he said that. At 
first, he wanted to devour me ; then he began to 
calm down. ‘ You are right, D. Narciso,’ I answered, 
‘ but I cannot help it.’ And it is the truth, my dear, 
I can’t help it — I can’t ! ” 

After the Epistle, the rector of Pefiascosa intoned 
the^Gospel. He had a harsh voice, without inflec- 
tions. He read in a thoroughly inattentive manner, 
hardly glancing at his book, raising his small, hard 
eyes over his spectacles to contemplate fixedly, or 
rather to pulverize with his stare the son of Pepaina, 
who was slyly picking the gutterings from the tapers, 
and putting them in his pocket. Although he was 
one of the most shameless vagabonds in town, 
Lorito (this was the name by which the distin- 
guished youth was known) felt annoyed and a trifle 
uneasy under the clergyman’s gaze. There was 
cause for it. D. Miguel Vigil, rector of Pefiascosa, 
had been, since the year 25 of the present century, 
one of the worst natured men in Spain, and we are 
not exaggerating in the least if we say, of this terra- 
queous globe. At the present moment he was 
eighty-two years of age ; he was tall, gaunt, with 
pronounced features, eyebrows thick and joined, 
eyes small and penetrating. He still preserved 
great physical vigor, and what is more rare, hardly 
a white hair was to be seen in the locks which re- 
mained to him. While the first civil war lasted, he 
had abandoned his flock and had gone off to the 
Basque provinces, to fight, arms in hand, for the 
cause of the Pretender. He returned after the lapse 
of a few years. His ferocious character had not 


FAITH. 


21 


been sweetened by going about the mountains under 
fire. His parishioners of Penascosa found in him a 
shepherd very much resembling a captain of high- 
waymen. No one in town was haughtier than he. 
D. Miguel was accustomed to solve the most diffi- 
cult cases of conscience in an instant, by means of 
a half dozen well planted cuffs or kicks. When 
Cosme’s Marcelino would not marry Laurcana, the 
daughter of the weaver, D. Miguel posted himself 
in Cosme’s house, caught Marcelino by the ears, 
gave him three hearty blows, and at the end of a 
fortnight, willy-nilly, he had them wedded. Ramon 
the confectioner refused to pay D. Cipriano two 
thousand reals which he had received without giv- 
ing a receipt. The priest summoned Ramon to his 
house, locked himself up with him in a room, took a 
cudgel, and forced him to sign the proper receipt. 
By dint of these theological proceedings, D. Miguel 
inculcated evangelical morals in the souls committed 
to his care. 

Novelties in worship were not to his taste. He 
regarded with scorn those ecclesiastics who sought 
to introduce them, and who paid attention to their 
costume and cleanliness. He tolerated them, be- 
cause he knew that they were upheld by the bishop 
and high clergy of the diocese, but he laughed at 
them incessantly, in a coarse, irritating way, and he 
was accustomed to play them malicious tricks and 
disturb them somewhat in those mystical practices 
upon which they laid great stress. For example, 
there was a question of celebrating a general com- 
munion of children with orchestral accompaniment. 


22 


FAITH-. 


On the appointed day, D. Miguel sent to the church 
a gang of carpenters, who set to work at repairing 
the tribune with terrific hammerings, which pre- 
vented the concerted voices and instruments from 
being heard. On other occasions, he compelled D. 
Narciso’s assidious penitents to undergo an exam- 
ination in Christian doctrine ; or he prohibited their 
singing in church, after a month of preparatory prac- 
tice ; or he banished from the altar the cloths which 
they had embroidered and ironed ; or he drove them 
out of a chapel where they had established them- 
selves, etc., etc. These acts of despotism had 
earned for him the animadversions of the Frenchi- 
fied ecclesiastics and of the female sex. D. Miguel 
did nojt care a doit for these strictures. The de- 
light of his life did not lie in being loved and ad- 
mired, but in enforcing his will at all times and on 
all occasions. Moreover, he might possess all the 
defects which his enemies attributed to him, but no 
one had ever perceived in him the shadow of an 
inclination for the weaker sex. He positively 
scorned women ; he thought that not one of them 
was capable of saying or doing anything that con- 
tained common sense. In his virile character there 
seemed incarnate that Roman spirit which denied 
to woman the faculty of even directing herself 
independently. 

Neither must it be supposed that D. Miguel 
showed obedience toward his superiors. It cost the 
bishop immense labor to come to an understanding 
with him. If he sent him an order, the priest stowed 
it away in the archives, without complying with 


FAITH. 


23 


it; if he was malting a round of visits, D. Miguel 
took to his bed, feigning illness, that he might avoid 
receiving him. The bishop ended by paying no 
heed to him, and allowing him to go his own way. 
He acted as confessor in Pefiascosa only to half 
a dozen veterans of the civil war. The rest of his 
parishioners were divided among the chaplains at- 
tached to the parish. Four-fifths of the ladies con- 
fided the burden of their delinquencies to the irre- 
sistible D. Narciso. D. Miguel did not suffer the 
slightest vexation in consequence of this preference. 
And nevertheless, the restricted number of his pen- 
itents asserted that he was a prudent, discreet, and 
delicate confessor in his questions. 

Having terminated the reading of the Gospel, he 
was able to grant himself the satisfaction of gazing 
persistently for a while at Lorito’s movements. 
Why was the rascal standing there, staring so ab- 
sent-mindedly at the- tribune, listening with rapture 
to the melody of the organ, when, not two seconds 
before, he had seen him thrust at least half a pound 
of wax into his pocket ? Thoughts of death and 
extermination flashed through the soul of the rector. 
Nevertheless, he found strength to restrain himself. 
The mass continued. The new priest raised the 
sacred Host with trembling hands, amid a murmur 
of fervor and admiration. The organist, letting 
loose a tremolo with his most snuffling stops, con- 
tributed powerfully to render the descent of the Son 
of God into the hands of a man more solemn and 
touching. Gil felt his body quiver under the im- 
pression. An ineffable joy surged up from the 


24 


FAITH. 


depths of his breast, and gently clutched at his 
throat. This immense, infinite favor, which his God 
conferred on him, which he had hoped for with 
such eagerness, moved him to the last fibers of his 
heart. His eyes were veiled in tears, and when he 
knelt, before elevating the cup of the Passion, he 
remained for several moments without being able to 
rise, and on the point of swooning. 

At that moment, Osuna, the steward of Monte- 
sinos, was partaking of very distinct impressions. 
Very peculiar stories were current in regard to him 
among the men. The neighbors despised and also 
feared him. He was considered to be a strange, 
mysterious, evil-intentioned being. He occupied a 
post from which he could do much harm to many 
people. -^He was the steward of Montesinos, the 
richest proprietor of Pefiascosa, and he inhabited one 
of the wings of the palace, an immense house, which 
the latter owned. He had buried three wives, and 
had a daughter, with whom we are already ac- 
quainted by name. He was extremely diminutive, 
with an immense hump on his shoulders, a withered 
complexion, pendant, flacid cheeks, eyes without 
brilliancy, and always frightened. A slight tremor 
was perceptible in his hands, as often happens with 
men exhausted with sensuality. 

We already know that he had placed himself as 
near Da. Teodora as possible. Da. Teodora had 
changed her position several times ; she ran for- 
ward, then stepped to one side ; all in vain. Wher- 
ever she went, she felt Osuna’s feet in her skirts. 
When she felt them, a flood of crimson flamed on 


FAITH. 


25 


her fresh cheeks, she trembled like a lass twelve 
years of age. In no woman was modesty ever pre- 
served with more delicacy and transparency. Some 
conversations, now in the mode, offended her; in 
her presence, no allusion, either direct or indirect, 
could be made to certain subjects. She said noth- 
ing, for she was prudence incarnate, and of timid 
disposition ; but she was seen to blush, grow uneasy, 
and desire to withdraw. Her body was as pure and 
fair as her soul. She liked to dress with elegance, 
and she cared for her person with refinements un- 
known in Pefiascosa. Those who had known her 
as a child said that she had never been pretty, only 
passable, and that now with her snowy hair, her 
fresh skin, and rosy cheeks, she was handsomer than 
she had ever been. Why had Da. Teodora remained 
unmarried, since she possessed an agreeable face 
and a suitable fortune? It was said that she had 
had some very fine and romantic love passages with 
a lieutenant of Arepiles, who had perished in the 
action of Ramales. On the eve of the battle, he had 
taken leave of her, by the medium of a card written 
on a drumhead ; his heart warned him that on the 
following day “ a treacherous bullet would cut 
short the thread of his existence, but that he should 
die with the name of Teodora on his lips.” She 
had preserved the card as a precious relic, and she 
guarded her heart also faithful to the memory of 
the valiant and romantic lieutenant. Nevertheless, 
for many years she had had an assiduous wooer. 
D. Juan Casanova, that gentleman of aquiline and 
majestic features, of whom we have spoken, went to 


26 


FAITH. 


her house unfailingly, every night, from eight until 
eleven o’clock. This was sufficient to make people 
in town believe that he was her platonic courtier 
and that, sooner or later, he would end by marrying 
her. This happy event had been expected for the 
last twenty years in Penascosa. At the present 
moment, considerable doubt was entertained as to 
its realization. The future bride and groom were 
growing too old, especially D. Juan, the accursed 
rheumatism in whose legs cost him superhuman 
efforts to ascend to her house. Thus, with every 
day that passed, they were becoming less and less 
fitted for fulfilling the sacred duties of marriage. 
Moreover, and finally, a certain event, which we 
shall mention later on, somewhat disturbed the 
tranquil and affectionate relations of the shriveled 
gentleman and the well preserved spinster. 

When' the deacon chanted the “ Ite, missa est,” 
she gave a sigh of relief, and prepared to rise and 
escape from the indecorous feet which were perse- 
cuting her. But it was a more arduous undertaking 
than she imagined. The church was so crammed 
with the faithful that no one could turn around. 
All desired to kiss the hands of the new priest, or, 
at least, witness that tender and curious ceremony. 
The latter descended a flight of steps from the altar 
and stood motionless, facing the multitude, casting 
upon it a vague and smiling glance. A loud mur- 
mur arose, which almost turned to a shout, when 
D. Narciso gently caught hold of the godmother, 
that she might be the first to pay her homage to the 
officiant. Da. Eloisa knelt before her godson, and 


FAITH. 


27 


kissed his hands with visible emotion. When she 
rose, several tears were coursing down her cheeks. 
Then she took a flask of perfumed water, gave an- 
other to Da. Rita, and, posting themselves on the 
right and left of the priest, they began to sprinkle 
those who approached to kiss his hands. One by 
one, jostling each other in their haste, the faithful 
rendered him this homage. The men kissed the 
palm of his hand, the women kissed the back, as 
they had been instructed. The latter appeared 
touched and merry, and laughed when Da. Rita or 
Da. Eloisa shook a few drops of cologne water in 
their faces ; then they retired to make room for 
others ; and, from afar, they continued to contem- 
plate, with affectionate interest, the delicate and 
pallid face of the priest. A cheerful commotion re- 
sounded through the church. The rustling of skirt5, 
the whispers and suppressed laughter of the women 
produced the buzzing of an apiary. The sound of 
the bells, which the sacristan and several small boys 
were chiming aloft in the tower, entered vivaciously 
and pleasantly through the windows. Several rays of 
the sun also made their way in, and spread over the 
altar, causing its gilded metals to gleam. But if on 
its way it stumbled over a pretty blond head, such 
as abounded among the working-girls of Peflascosa, 
it found no impropriety in pausing to bestow a kiss 
of admiration. 

Gil was deeply moved ; his heart bounded in his 
breast. He felt an impulse to burst into sobs ; he 
managed to restrain himself, though not without 
difficulty, and this caused him discomfort. These 


28 


FAITH. 


demonstrations of veneration, although they repre- 
sented a customary ceremony, put him to shame. 
At the sight of all the grandees and ladies of the 
town kneeling at his feet, — these persons who had 
always inspired him with so much respect, — he felt 
confused and ill at ease. His lips were contracted 
by a smile which revealed more disquiet than 
pleasure. Da. Eloisa and Da. Rita used up several 
flasks of essence, bestowing copious sprinkling, 
especially upon their friends, whose faces they 
bathed amid a hurrah which was none the less 
savory for being repressed. Little by little the 
religious solemnity became transformed into a fes- 
tival of private and familiar character. The female 
friends of the godmother and the protectresses of 
the young priest were gradually left behind, forming 
in their turn a picturesque group, while the rest of 
the people filed out through the two doors of the 
church. A ray of sunlight fell upon the priest ; his 
rich vestments of cloth of gold sent forth vivid 
flashes ; his handsome blond head resembled that 
of a cherub. The ladies gazed at him in ecstasy. 

The rector and D. Narciso, who had assisted in 
the mass, had retired to remove their vestments. 
The former speedily returned, provided with cassock 
and cap, beneath which various sinister thoughts 
were in agitation. The conduct of Lorito, in con- 
nection with the gutterings of the tapers, had ren- 
dered him pensive and gloomy. For some time 
past that young person had enjoyed the privilege 
of vexing him. On one occasion he knew, the fel- 
low had climbed on the roof of the church, to get 


FAITH. 


29 


possession of some sparrows’ nests; he suspected 
him of having, on another occasion, robbed the 
earthen jar in the corridor of the rectory, of eggs. 
And, although he had contrived to tranquilize his 
spirit by means of a few adequate kicks, still he felt 
sad and agitated every time that Pepaina’s son 
presented himself to his vision. 

^.Without troubling himself much over the touch- 
ing ceremony which was in progress in the chancel, 
D. Miguel traversed the church with deliberate 
tread, scrutinizing all the corners. The persons 
who still remained in the church made way for him 
with more fear than respect. He penetrated all the 
chapels, made a minute examination of the state of 
all the tapers which were burning on the altars. 
He must have recognized in them some trace of 
the passage of the vandal, for his face became more 
and more lowering. In the last, on the left, where 
stood the baptismal font, he finally got scent of the 
merry rascal. He walked with precaution, and with 
his energetic, aquiline nose looming up, he was able 
at length to descry at a distance the flat nose and 
shining phiz of the scamp, who, in company with 
one of his most faithful disciples, was occupied in 
adding to the immense ball of wax which he had 
extracted from the candles. The rector experienced 
the nervous tremor of a cat in sight of a rat ; he 
made ready, like her, slipping his feet lightly over 
the floor, and, bang! with a couple of bounds he 
fell upon the barbarians. But Lorito was not a vul- 
gar vandal, one of those who allow themselves to be 
paught like an innocent little rat. Without seeing D, 


30 


FAITH. 


Miguel he smelled his powerful breath, and, ducking 
suddenly, at the moment when the latter was on the 
point of clutching him, he succeeded in dodging the 
blow, and pitching headlong on the altar, before 
the rector could turn round, he had already set out 
at full career for the door. It was in vain. D. 
Miguel hastily caught up the bronze Christ which 
stood on the altar, and hurled it with such force and 
accurate aim that it struck him in the head, and he 
fell to the ground, while his blood flowed copiously. 

At the sound of the lad’s shriek and of the noise 
produced by his fall, people ran in ; they picked 
him up and rendered him the first succor, stanch- 
ing the blood with spiders’ webs and binding a ker- 
chief about his head, like a fillet. While these opera- 
tions were in progress they did not omit to grumble, 
though in low tones, at the brutality of the rector. 
The latter, perfectly satisfied with his work, retired 
majestically to the sacristy, but not until he had 
seized the opportunity to administer a couple of 
kicks on the buttocks of the accomplice, who was 
stealing away, tremulous and cast-down at his mas- 
ter’s misfortune. 

But the glorious progenitor of the latter, Pepaina’s 
Pepe, as he was called by the populace, in order to 
distinguish him from the numerous other Pepes, a 
fisherman by trade, and a very pacific brute who did 
not utter above three dozen words in a week, at the 
sight of his son in this state, began to clamor in the 
vestibule of the church like a man possessed. The 
sense of his discourse was thal he felt no respect 
whatever for the ecclesiastical profession, and that 


FAITH, 


31 


those people who dared to suppose that he, Pepe 
Raya, would refrain from administering to the 
priest, as soon as he set his foot outside the church, 
a cuff to the starboard and another to the larboard, 
and perhaps also, a kick behind that should send him 
under water, were suffering under a lamentable 
delusion. 

D. Miguel, who had thought he caught the sense 
of some of the extremes of this discourse from 
within, insisted upon stepping out into the porch to 
witness his demonstration, but D. Narciso and the 
sacristan restrained him. They bore him off to the 
sacristy, and there they kept him busy until the 
danger was past. 

When the people came out of the church the sun 
was floating in the azure expanse, bathing it with 
light and joy. The bells chimed with increasing 
frenzy. A multitude of rockets went off with a loud 
crash and impregnated the air with the smell of 
powder. The waves also crashed pleasantly against 
the rocky cliffs, which almost completely surrounded 
the church. In this pleasing concert of a nature 
which rarely smiles, the only harsh note to be heard 
was the deep bass intoned by Pepaina’s husband. 


II. 


PeNascosa is situated at the bottom of a small bay 
on the Cantabrian coast. Its houses extend all 
along the seashore without penetrating more than a 
hundred rods inland. Only at the summit of the 
narrow pass lies a square of medium size, whence 
starts the highway which leads to Nieva. The por- 
tion of the town which lies to the right is less ex- 
tensive and important than that which lies to the left. 
On this bank runs the best, and we may even say, 
the only street of the settlement. It is long, steep 
in places, in other places level, here broad, there 
narrow, with walks on one side for pedestrians. 
The houses on the right all have access to the sea 
by staircases, of better or worse construction accord- 
ing to the edifice. It ends in the Field of Discour- 
agement, where the church rises on a point of land 
which projects into the sea. This field derives its 
name from several willow trees, whose branches 
droop over the benches of rough stone, where the 
honorable neighbors sit to take the sun in winter, 
or to inhale the breeze in summer. It is the spot 
on which take place all the festivals and public merry- 
makings of the town, the illuminations and fire- 
works, ascents of balloons, music, dancing, and 
gayety. It serves also as the place of assembly for 
the society of the mariners when it becomes neces- 


32 


FAITH. 


33 


sary to come together and settle a question, and as a 
camp for the fair, and a maneuvering ground for 
the little school children. It is no wonder that this 
should be so, given the peculiar structure of the 
town, which contains no open and commodious place 
except this square. 

The pier is a stone jetty which starts from about the 
middle of the street already mentioned, and projects 
a little more than a hundred rods into the sea. The 
descent to it is down an easy slope on which stand 
at least half a dozen wine shops, and two wretched 
little coffee-houses, the Marina and the Imperial. 
Both swarm with patrons at all hours, but especially 
at twilight, when the fishing boats come in from the 
sea and the crews have finished their labors on the 
tenders and smacks at anchor. These are the only 
vessels which come to Pefiascosa. Nevertheless, 
there is a steamer which plows the waves of the 
bay from time to time, and dares to approach the 
pier. It is a tugboat from Sarrio, called the Seagull. 
Its long, plaintive whistles send the neighborhood 
into ecstasies of pride. For in the matter of lov- 
ing their own village and scorning all the rest of 
the earth, no one has ever surpassed the Peftas- 
cosa people, not even the Romans. There does not 
exist a Pefiascosa man who is not firmly convinced 
that his port is the one most favored by nature on 
all the Spanish coast. If it has not the commercial 
importance of Barcelona, Mdlaga, or Bilbao, it is 
because no one has busied himself preparing for it 
by adequate works. Toward Sarrid, a town whose 
population is five times greater, and which has ac- 


34 


FAITH. 


quired great importance during the last few years, 
they feel inveterate hatred and disdain. When they 
behold steamers sail past “ the sheltered, tranquil, 
and secure harbor ” of Pefiascosa, and enter the 
“ dirty and dangerous anchorage ” of Sarrid, every 
good Peftascosian feels his bosom heave with indig- 
nation, as he who has been the victim of a robbery, 
and sees the swindler drive by in his carriage. It is 
worth while to hear them talk about the qualities of 
the port of Sarrid, especially when a stranger is lis- 
tening to them. A slightly ironical and scornful 
smile begins to dawn on their lips, which grows more 
and more accentuated until it is transformed into a 
sonorous, Homeric laugh, when they arrive at this 
point : “ The crabs are all greatly pleased with the 

bay of Sarrid. They say that they can enter and 
leave it without any danger whatever.” If the fish- 
ing boats of that port are occasionally forced to put 
into Pefiascosa on account of a storm, with what very 
humiliating patronage do the natives receive them. 
And when the latter go to the abhorred town on 
business, they are nervous and uneasy there ; the 
traffic and sounds of the pier resound dolorously in 
their hearts ; they return to their town with stomach 
upset, and in excitement, narrating the thousand 
annoyances that the envy of the Sarrians has caused 
them. They keep an exact account of all the un- 
fortunate occurrences on the bar of their rival, and 
are never weary of pitying the poor foreign barks 
whom impious Fate conducts to so inhospitable a 
port. 

The Pefiascosa people are proud, not alone of the 


FAITH. 


35 


draught, shelter, and security of their port. They 
possess in addition another set of natural advantages 
which are really inestimable. In the suburbs of the 
town exists a spring of ferruginous water, which is 
the admiration of natives and strangers, especially 
of natives. Strangers think that if the water were 
not mixed with so many heterogeneous substances, 
it might be drunk with more facility, and would 
produce the same results. And, to tell the truth, 
we also incline to believe that its health-giving 
virtues are not augmented by what the children 
of the suburbs throw into it, and by the even less 
diplomatic manner in which they sometimes relieve 
themselves. Thanks to the influence of the climate, 
the best hogs in the world are raised in Penascosa, 
and it is said that in no foreign land do people know 
so well what it is to eat ham as in this favored 
village. It is equally lucky that, *if the hogs of 
Peflascosa are the best in the world, the chestnuts 
on which they are fed are the plumpest, sweetest, 
and most nutritious. The sea of Peflascosa is also 
equal to that of other ports ; above all, there is no 
comparison between it and that of Sarrib. There 
are persons who, without knowing why, grow gradu- 
ally weaker and weaker in the latter village, lose 
their appetite and their temper ; but, as soon as they 
begin to take sea-baths in Peflascosa, they recover. 
The baths at Sarrib produce no medicinal effect ; on 
the contrary, everyone who bathes there exposes 
himself to eruptions, catarrhs, rheums, and other very 
sad disorders. On the east, or rather on the north- 
east, .the town is sheltered against the most violent 


36 


FAITH. 


and constant winds. Consequently, the climate is 
mild and benign ; epidemics do not flourish. The 
Pefiascosians announce with pride that during the 
last cholera three hundred and twelve persons died 
in Sarrid, while only sixty-one died in Peftascosa, 
and of these at least thirty descended to the grave 
because of lamentable ri’eglect, which their respec- 
tive families should have avoided, if only for the 
credit of the town. It is useless to speak of the fish 
which are caught in this privileged port. For a hun- 
dred leagues roundabout, no one is ignorant of the 
fact that its sardines, cod, conger-eels, and bream are 
above comparison with those of Sarrid. As this ap- 
pears singular, on account of the short distance 
which separates one town from the other, the Penas- 
cosa people explain it by the better feeding ground 
of their fish. In short, we know no other town 
more grateful to the Supreme Creator for the topo- 
graphical, hydrographical, and climatological condi- 
tions with which he has been pleased to favor it. 
With regard to ethnographical conditions, the best 
advantage which we have been able to perceive is 
the beauty and grace of the women. They are tall, 
compactly built, with rosy skin and black eyes ; their 
voices are sweet and sonorous, and they speak with 
a very characteristic musical accent ; they seem to 
be reciting with the piano. They do not claim to 
be beauties, but they are so. On the other hand, 
they pride themselves on singing better than the 
women of any other town in the province, and this 
is not the case. It is certain that, as we have just 
pointed out, there exist among them many pleasing 


FAITH. 


37 


and ample voices ; but their ear, and, above all, their 
taste, do not correspond to their voices. They 
mutilate what they sing in such a manner that no 
one, not even the author himself who composed it, 
recognizes it. The truth is that the Peflascosa women 
abuse fermatas and fiorituras, and that the maidens 
of Sarrid, without having such good voices, sing with 
more taste and refinement. Silence upon this point, 
for if anyone were to repeat it in Peflascosa, they 
would tear his eyes out. 

The youthful Peflascosians have also taken it into 
their heads (if we were to say their beautiful heads, 
it would be no falsehood) that they possess a par- 
ticular aptitude for composing couplets appropriate 
to various circumstances. They generally compose 
them to popular airs, which serve for dancing on 
holidays. If a school building is inaugurated, they 
sing a couplet ; if the deputy of the district arrives 
to take the baths, serenade and couplets; if D. Jose, 
the tobacco retailer, sets up a line of omnibuses to 
the capital, there is a laudatory couplet to D. Josd" 
the tobacconist. But the branch in which the 
young working-girls shine with especial brilliancy is 
in satirical couplets ; we need not add that the favorite 
target of their satires is the petty, dangerous, and 
dirty port of Sarrid. These couplets are, usually, 
well measured, and the sting is visible in many of 
them. What does it matter ? The Peflascosians 
sing them with a fire and resonance which drive the 
girls of Sarrid to desperation, and make them fall 
ill with wrath. 

The men are usually, as everywhere, more homely 


FAITH. 


38 

than handsome, more dull than gracious, more rough 
than courteous, more vulgar than original. Never- 
theless, there is in nearly all of them a touch of 
imagination which, if it does not serve them to write 
novels, renders them curious and eager for novelties 
beyond the men of the rest of the province. Every 
insignificant event acquires grandiose proportions in 
Peftascosa. The settlement is deeply agitated every 
time that a certain brigantine schooner arrives, 
bringing boards of red pine from the North for Don 
Romuald, and it rushes down in a body to be present 
at the unloading. A common prestidigitateur pro- 
duces extraordinary commotion, and occasions long 
and violent disputes in the club, in the coffee-houses, 
in the evening gatherings, in the shops, encourages 
the taste and fancy of the Peftascosians for various 
careers. On one occasion a magnetizer made his 
appearance, and held several sessions in the theater 
(so-called). For the space of six months, the Penas- 
cosians devoted themselves almost entirely to mag- 
netizing each other. One could not enter any 
gathering without coming upon a young lady sleep- 
ing, while a young man of the town, in the attitude 
of driving away the flies from her, flung handfuls 
of fluid in her face; all the world were mediums 
and spiritualists, and gyrating watchmen ; some 
honorable persons came near going mad ; one of 
them rushed out at night demanding confession, in 
shrieks, because he had been talking with a certain 
defunct relative. Then came a phrenologist. The 
Peftascosians devoted themselves for another space 
to feeling each other's heads, and making prophecies 


FAITH. 


39 


regarding the fate reserved for the children. The 
dissolving views of a juggler engendered a fondness 
for magic lanterns, and the dramatic companies 
which got so far, real gangs of rascals, called forth 
strange aptitudes for the scenic art in many indi- 
viduals who, up to that time, had never revealed 
them. A shipwrecked Austrian inspired them with 
love for philology ; he gave several lessons in Ger- 
man and Russian to various conspicuous persons 
of the place, and, at the end of two months, 
he fled with six thousand reals belonging to D. 
Jose, the tobacconist, two thousand belonging to 
D. Ramigio Fldrez, and a few more pesetas belong- 
ing to other gentlemen. Nothing else was talked 
of for a couple of months. 

There is in Peftascosa a club, which subscribes to 
five periodicals from Madri(J and one from Lancia. 
The Sarrio Beacon, which was sent to them gratui- 
tously, was returned to its source, at the prop- 
osition of various' most worthy members when this 
paper proposed (how disgusting!) the construction 
of a grand port of refuge at Sarrid. There exists also 
a society of recreation, of which the life and soul 
is D. Gaspar de Silva, a local poet, who has written 
more dramatic works than Shakspere. He gave 
it the name of the Agora, in consonance with his 
classic tastes. It is the temple of art. Here the 
pieces of D. Gaspar are played by young amateurs, 
his lyrical poems are read, amid the tears and ap- 
plause of the young ladies of the place, charades 
and logogriphs are guessed, mandolinatas and stor- 
nellos are sung in astounding Italian, and the mem- 


40 


FAITH. 


bers enjoy themselves in a thousand different ways. 
Truly, the Agora of Penascosa recalls, even more 
than the Greek assembly which has given it its 
name, the circle of the Queen of Navarre, that 
agreeable and poetical reunion of fair ladies and 
cavaliers which overflowed with wit, and from which 
such elegant inventions have proceeded. Neverthe- 
less, we will not carry our eagerness for similitudes 
to the point of comparing D. Caspar with Marguerite 
de Valois. Both of them must consider themselves 
as privileged beings, in their own style; but they 
belong to different styles. 

D. Caspar is a tall, thin man, with a face cov- 
ered by colored spots which betrayed his stormy 
youth ; thin hair; a beard, which he wore after the 
fashion of Espronceda, Larra, and the literary men 
of the year thirty-four, sprinkled with gray, bristling; 
huge hands and feet, th*e latter so pinched with corns 
that the poet always walked with the aid of a 
crutch, and with back strongly bowed. In spite of 
this circumstance, it cannot be denied that he is a 
most notable man, and it is not without reason that 
Pefiascosa prides itself on having been his cradle, 
and on keeping him in its bosom. He has never 
limited himself, like the majority of literary men, to 
cultivating only one manner, with greater or less 
success. He has written epic poems, lyrical poems — 
poems of all classes, amorous, satirical, philosophical, 
didactic ; he is a novelist and a dramatic author. 
Three-quarters of his works have remained in man- 
uscript ; but those which have been printed (at the 
expense of a first cousin of the poet, who lived in 


FAITH. 


41 


Puerto Rico) suffice to render his memory imperish- 
able. At least, it is certain that we shall never for- 
get, so long as existence endures, those which we 
have had the happiness to become personally ac- 
quainted with. Silva is a poet who has preserved 
more likeness to the ancient than to the modern 
bards. Like Shakspere, like Moliere and Lope de 
Rueda, he has presented his own works on the stage, 
reserving to himself the prominent parts, because of 
the curvature of his spine. In this case he is accus- 
tomed to employ a choked and quivering voice, 
which causes profound emotion in his neighbors. 
The titles of his plays bear a stamp of originality 
which recalls, to some extent, those of the immortal 
English dramatist. Among other strange and very 
original titles, we remember the following: Don’t 
come to me with frog-fish, or I’ll break your breast- 
bone” (comedy, in three acts); “Between cabbage 
and cabbage, a lettuce ” (piece in one act); “And 
yet we die ” (drama in three acts) ; “ Do you like 
blondes or not?” (piece in one act). Although he 
has shone, and does shine in all varieties of'litera- 
ture, we think that his genius is more of the dra- 
matic than of the poetic order. 

There are no other regular societies in Peflascosa. 
The gathering at the apothecary’s, that at D. Martin 
de las Casas’, that of the musqueteers (this last held 
in the open air, on the Field of Discouragement), 
are free assemblies,- without either artistic or politi- 
cal ideal. 

Of this town, distinguished for its marvelous 
geographical situation, and for the talent of its sors. 


42 


FAITH. 


the target of envy not alone of Sarrio, but also of 
Santander and Bilbao and all the other ports of the 
Cantabrian coast, which have sought in vain to 
humiliate it; of this generous, patriotic, idealistic 
town, the young priest who is the hero of this truth- 
ful history had been appointed assistant rector. 
This had been effected through the influence and 
mediation of D. Martin de las Casas and other 
prominent persons. It cost them no trouble to 
obtain this appointment from the Bishop, because 
Gil had attracted great attention as an industrious 
and intelligent student in the seminary at Lancia. 
At the same time, his pure habits, and the sweetness 
and gentleness of his character, testified to by all 
the professors, placed him in a position to fill any 
office in the Church. The rector of the seminary, 
several dignitaries among the clergy, and even the 
prelate himself, had suggested to him the idea of 
remaining in Lancia, and entering into competition 
for one of the canonries which might fall vacant in 
the cathedral. No one doubted his having suffi- 
cient knowledge to obtain it. Nevertheless, the 
new priest declined the proposal with humility, 
alleging the insufficiency of his studies, which he 
hoped to amplify in time, and his excessive youth 
for a charge of such importance, in case it were 
intrusted to him. In the depths of his being there 
existed also, without his being aware of it himself, 
a certain repugnance for the sociable and luxurious 
life of the canons. 

Gil was a mystic. He had had the good fortune 
to find in the rector of the seminary a man of 


FAITir. 


43 


exalted piety, an eloquent orator, passionate, 
endowed with genius — a genuine apostle. This 
extraordinary man, who formed a contrast with the 
prudent and prosaic ecclesiastics who surrounded 
him, exercised a decisive influence upon the delicate 
and dreamy spirit of our hero, and carried him with 
him in his lofty flight, communicating to him the 
fire which consumed his own ascetic soul. His 
education was mediocre, but even this slender stock 
of knowledge weighed upon him. He felt an idola- 
trous respect, which he communicated to his disciple, 
for theology, because of the mysterious and incom- 
prehensible element therein contained. On the 
other hand, he looked with indifference on philoso- 
phy, and scorned the natural sciences. Like all 
men of lively faith and ardent heart, he was an 
enemy to reason. When one loves and believes in 
very truth, one craves for the absurd, one despoils 
one’s soul, with delight, of its analytical faculty, 
and lays it at the feet of the beloved object, as 
Saint Isabel placed her crown at the feet of the 
image of Jesus, before she began to pray. It was a 
case of suicide through mystic orthodoxy. Under 
his direction, the seminary at Lancia was gradually 
losing the slight varnish of science which had been 
given to it through the last reforms. The courses 
of physics, natural history, mathematics, and phi- 
losophy were studied, but with so little profit that 
no professor dared suspend a student, no matter 
what nonsense he uttered in the phantom of an 
examination which was held. On the other hand, 
decisive importance was conceded to religious prac- 


44 


FAITH. 


tices, and to all pious exercises. The day was 
passed in prayer and meditation. The student who 
won most appreciation was not the one who recited 
and understood the lessons best, but the one who 
could pass the most hours on his knees, or fast with 
the most rigor, the one who was most silent and 
taciturn. 

The majority of the students, sons of workingmen 
and artisans, accomplished these duties without 
great effort, perceiving therein a means of arriving 
speedily and without difficulty at the priesthood. 
Study would have mortified them more. For Gil, 
such a manner of life represented constant toil, a 
battle with himself. His vigorous intellect hum 
gered for study, his imagination longed for exercise. 
He set to work, with systematic tenacity, to thwart 
the expansions of his nature; he began the slow 
suicide which his master and all the mystics of the 
world had committed before him. He penetrated 
his master’s thought, he shared his gloomy ideal of 
life, his rage for penitence, his disdain of pleasure, 
his horror both of sciences and the world. This 
conflict with the flesh has its own poetry. Other- 
wise, there would be no mystics. When he finished 
his course, he was the model which was held up to 
the students. Equally humble, reserved, grave, 
and sweet, he was indefatigable at his prayers, and 
received the mark meritissimus in all departments. 

Now we find him exercising the post of assistant 
rector -of Pefiascosa. He would have preferred to 
set off and rule a country parish. Intercourse with 
the world produced a painful impression on him ; 


paith. 


45 


for him, Peflascosa, with its club, its caf^s, its 
evening gatherings, was a center of frivolity, not 
to say of corruption. But Da. Eloisa and his pro- 
tectresses had made a point of keeping him in the 
town, and the rector of the seminary, his venerated 
master, counseled him not to disregard their 
entreaties; if the frivolity of the town annoyed 
him, his task would be all the more meritorious 
and fruitful ; the souls of country bumpkins do not 
require such fastidiously nice care. With the emo- 
tion and anxiety of a person who puts his hand to a 
most sacred work, the newly ordained priest began 
his tasks. He rose at daybreak and betook himself 
to the church, which he was the first to enter, 
before the sacristan. He seated himself in the 
confessional and remained there, listening to those 
who approached the holy tribunal, until eight 
o’clock, the hour at which he said his mass. Then 
he heard confessions for a while longer and returned 
home. Until the hour for dinner he busied himself 
with study, meditation, and prayer. Then to the 
church again ; rosary, instruction in doctrine, order- 
ing and adornment of the temple. As soon as he 
arrived the latter began to be clean and decent. 
He did not scold, but by dint of example, laying 
his own hand to the duster and the broom, he suc- 
ceeded in getting the sacristan to do his duty. But 
that in which his fervent soul found its chief delight 
was in hastening promptly to the bedside of the 
dying, remaining riveted there, exhorting them to 
repentance, sustaining their trust in God until they 
breathed their last. This was the agreeable part of 


FAITM. 


46 

his task, the really Divine labor which left his heart 
inundated with sweetness and enthusiasm. Wrest- 
ing a soul from the clutches of the demon ! When, 
at dawn, after closing the eyes of a poor parishioner, 
he directed his steps to the church, shivering with 
cold, his frail body broken by a night of vigil and 
toil, his eyes sought that sea, always wrathful, that 
gloomy sky ; and, instead of feeling the sadness and 
grief of existence, his spirit swelled with joy and 
tears of gratitude flooded his eyes. It was the 
sublime delight of Jesus traversing on foot the 
burning shores of the sea of Tiberias, announcing 
the kingdom of the Father; it was the delight of 
San Francisco, when he returned to the Porciuncula 
with a new companion of penitence ; it was that of 
the holy King Fernando when he gained possession 
of Sevilla; it was, in short, the delight of all apos- 
tles. 

He had gone to live with the rector, not from 
taste, but because the latter had insisted that assist- 
ants — or vicars, as they were called here — should 
live with him, perhaps in order that he might be the 
better able to tyrannize over them. The rectory was 
situated not very far from the church, at the en- 
trance of the Field of Discouragement. D. Miguel’s 
servants consisted of an old housekeeper and a 
young man. The spiritual delights of poor Gil 
were thoroughly compensated for by the number- 
less oppositions and annoyances which liis rough 
rector made him suffer in consequence. D. 
Miguel was as barbarous in private as in public 
life. His despotic will made itself felt in every 


FAITH. 


47 


detail, at every moment of existence. Now, if this 
will had been rational, therd would have been no 
objection to make ; but the will of this formijiable 
old man was as capricious as it was malign. He took 
a delight in thwarting the wishes of those about 
him, however trivial they might be. He kept his 
housekeeper in a stew. One day he prevented her tak- 
ing he^* nap ; another day he killed a dog for which 
she had conceived a great affection ; he flung away 
the earthen pots which she had in the balcony, or 
compelled her to remain in the house on some 
grand religious festival, or made her pay for any 
imperfection in the table service, etcetera, etcetera. 
He fairly toasted his manservant on a gridiron ; 
sometimes he dispatched him, on the eve of a holi- 
day, to some hamlet or other on an insignificant 
errand, in order that he might not enjoy himself ; 
at other times he locked the door on him if he ar- 
rived a minute later than he was permitted, and 
made him sleep out of doors, or he compelled 
him to shave off his whiskers, or dressed him in the 
loose gown of an acolyte, because he had observed 
that this vexed the man extremely. He crucified the 
vicar. He had had a great many vicars, and he had 
studied each of them in silence fora few days, in order 
to discover their likings and tendencies. Once 
thoroughly informed, he set about thwarting them 
with special care. He had made the last vicar, an 
obese man, addicted to the pleasures of the table, 
endure every extremity of hunger, until it was a 
miracle that he did not die ; the wretched man 
returned from saying mass, with great desire to 


48 


FAITH, 


swallow his chocolate. Much chocolate he got. The 
rector had previously sent the housekeeper off on 
some*errand which took at least two hours. What 
weakness, what perspirations, what pangs, fell to the 
lot of the poor chaplain. If they arrived, in their 
evening walks, at any house where they were in- 
vited to sup, the rector declined, pretending that 
they had already supped at home. He did not suf- 
fer, because he was extremely frugal, but the mouth 
of his poor companion watered. 

Gil’s studiousness caused him great surprise. 
Among the many assistants who had filed through 
his house, he had not chanced upon any mystic 
down to the present time. One he had had who 
was fond of worship and preaching, but without the 
ardent piety which this one displayed. The wrong- 
headed Don Miguel gazed at him with a species of 
comical curiosity, with the disdainful compassion 
with which old men almost always regard the il- 
lusions and the paroxysms of youth. For some time 
he allowed him to labor freely in the Lord’s vineyard. 
Gil’s innocence and goodness appeased his malicious 
instincts. But, in the long run, these could not 
remain inactive, and he began to throw obstacles in 
the way of his vicar’s apostolic work. Sometimes 
he forbade his preaching on certain days ; again he 
prohibited his sitting so many hours in the confes- 
sional, or forced him to say mass later. There were 
occasions when, feigning absent-mindedness, he 
left him locked up in the house, so that he could 
not say it at any hour. 

Our priest accepted with resignation these vexa- 


FAITH. 


49 


tions, and intrusted them to God, as he did all the 
troubles and pleasures which he experienced in 
this life. D. Miguel’s character inspired him with 
repugnance and terror. His soul was too much in- 
flamed with divine love to enable him to perceive 
the comical and interesting side in this extravagant 
person, to contemplate and study him with the eye 
of an artist. This violence, this ferocity rather, 
disturbed his delicate soul. The small attachment 
which the rector displayed for theological subjects, 
or anything unworldly, made him indignant. Above 
all, the sordid avarice of this old man — who stood 
with one foot in the grave — of the minister of him 
who said: ‘‘Ye shall take no gold, or silver, or 
money ; nor shall you take a scrip on your jour- 
ney ; neither two tunics, nor shoes, nor staff,” 
caused him invincible repugnance. The rector of 
Pefiascosa passed for a rich man, and he was so, in 
fact. A rule of fifty years over a populous parish, 
and a life of extreme economy, had enabled him to 
lay by a respectable capital. He had bought much 
land, but it was said that he also kept in his house a 
great quantity of coin. And it must have been so, 
considering the vigilance which he exercised, 
especially at night. When D. Miguel had finished 
his frugal supper and recited a pater noster by way of 
grace, he rose, and, staggering a little, for his body 
was more robust than his legs, he went to the chest 
of drawers, drew from it a pair of enormous flint- 
lock pistols, and, holding one in each hand, he 
betook himself to his bedchamber beneath the 
astonished gaze of Gil, for, although the scene was 


50 


FAITH. 


repeated every day, it never fajled to produce pain- 
ful stupefaction. A priest with two pistols in his 
hands! In those very hands which, on the following 
day, would touch the body of the Redeemer ! He 
had occasionally seen his master, the rector of the 
seminary, in bed. On his night table lay a crucifix 
of bronze and a blood-stained scourge. On com- 
paring the two priests, he not only felt his admira- 
tion for that most virtuous of men increase, but 
also, in spite of himself, a certain scorn for his rec- 
tor sprang to life in his soul. 

In spite of this, his humility forced him to repulse 
this sentiment, and to repeat to himself the phrase 
common to all mystics: “This man, and every 
man, is better than I.” Not only then did he look 
on him as his superior in the hierarchy and ren- 
der him all due respect, but he made efforts to 
represent him to himself as better than himself 
morally. In the confessional, complicated cases of 
conscience were presented to him, which did not 
enter into the formulas of the books he had studied. 
Perceiving that he was in difficulties as to their 
solution, he had recourse to D. Miguel with a re- 
quest for light. He timidly expounded the case to 
him and asked his advice. The crossgrained old 
man listened to him with visible impatience, and, 
knitting his grim brows, he usually answered him 
with asperity : 

“ Go ahead, and don’t halt over nonsensical 
stuff ! ” 

Nonsensical stuff ! The rector of Peftascosa quali- 
fied thus the aberrations of a conscience, the pangs 


FAITH. 


51 


of remorse ! The assistant was astounded, and did 
his best to flee from the thoughts which, at that 
moment, attacked his brain in throngs. He ended 
by not asking any counsel of him, and in this he 
acted wisely. D. Miguel’s moral theology was, 
without doubt, more deficient than his military 
tactics. 

Next to receiving the last sigh of the dying, the 
new priest’s greatest pleasure consisted in sitting in 
the confessional and clearing up the consciences of 
his penitents, and leading them in the path of per- 
fection. But this pleasure gradually decreased 
when he observed the pettiness, the insignifi- 
cance, of the persons who approached his tribunal. 
Nearly all were women ; it was a miracle when a 
man came to confess. These women, always the 
same, and with the same sins, ended by wearying 
him. In the beginning, as he observed the docility 
with which they listened to his counsels, the ardent 
piety which they exhibited, and their fondness for 
the sacraments, he imagined that it would be an 
easy matter to make them better every day, to raise 
them to sanctity, or something but little short of it. 
He speedily convinced himself that it was more 
difficult to change the life V)f these pious persons 
than that of a hardened sinner. This caused him 
great depression of spirits ; he began to weary of 
these trifles, of the insipid and stupid domestic 
confidences with which the devout women sea- 
soned their confessions. And he could do no less 
than admire his companion. Father Narciso, who 
spent whole hours confessing them with the same 


52 


FAITH. 


fondness as on the first day. He not only con- 
fessed them, but, on one pretext or another, he re- 
mained constantly with them ; sometimes it was the 
Flowers of May, again the novena of the daughter 
of Mary ; again the Society of Saint Vincent de 
Paul, etcetera. Father Narciso was, as we already 
know, the spiritual director and the idol of the fair 
sex of Penascosa. 

Nevertheless, since the arrival of Father Gil in 
town, his flock had suffered some losses. Various 
pious women had abandoned his protecting cassock 
to place themselves under the ferule of the new 
vicar. The latter did not possess the verbosity and 
grace of Father Narciso, nor did he take pleasure in 
exchanging spicy jests with his penitents ; but, on 
the other hand, he possessed a face as delicate as 
that of a cherub, a sweet and melancholy smile, and 
manners so suave and distinguished that they com- 
pensated for the qualities of the former. Several 
ladies took this view of it at least, and this caused 
the disbanding which we have mentioned. But the 
odd, the astounding part of the business was that 
the favorite lamb of the chaplain of Sarrio — that Ob- 
dulia about whom the young working-girls had 
murmured on the day 6i the new mass — also aban- 
doned her shepherd, with whom she had frisked 
spiritually in the garden of Montesinos, according 
to these girls, and came humbly to prostrate herself 
at the feet of the young priest. 

Two months after the latter had taken possession 
of his office, he sat in the confessional one evening, 
reading the prayers from his pocket breviary. There 


FAITH, 


53 


was no one in the little chapel in which he was 
accustomed to post himself. Two women of the 
lower class, whom he had confessed, had already 
taken their departure. All of a sudden, a tall, 
slender figure half obstructed the door, through 
which some light still entered. Father Gil raised 
his eyes and recognized Osuna’s daughter. He 
knew her very well by sight, although he had never 
spoken to her. He was not ignorant of the fact 
that she was a very assiduous penitent of Father 
Narciso, and although certain rumors had reached 
his ears, he had rejected them with indignation, of 
course. Nevertheless, this young woman who was 
so attached to the Church, so free and restless, was 
not sympathetic to him. Obduliahad a pale, a very 
pale, complexion, from which her black eyes shone 
out large and rarely beautiful. Her hair was black 
also, and abundant, her waist very slender ; her 
whole person indicated a sickly temperament. She 
could not justly be called beautiful, but interest- 
ing and distinguished she certainly was. She 
advanced slowly through the chapel.- The young 
clergyman thought that she was come to ask him 
some question about the general communion on the 
following day. But instead of this, Obdulia bent 
toward him timidly and asked him, in a trembling 
voice, which betrayed extreme emotion : 

“ Can you confess me ? ” 

He was surprised and displeased. He paused a 
moment before replying finally, he said gravely : 

“ That is what I am here for, to confess all who 
desire it,’* 


54 


FAITH. 


The young woman’s pale face was covered with 
a deep blush ; her lips quivered as though to thank 
him, but no sound escaped them. She knelt down 
on the low bench contiguous to the confessional, 
prayed a few moments, and at length approached 
her face to the little grated window. 

Father Gil was uneasy and far from being pleased 
at this preference. Not that it made any difference 
to him whether he confessed one young woman 
more or less. For him, women were weak creatures, 
requiring, for that very reason, protection and coun- 
sel ; if he was obliged to live constantly on his 
guard against them, it was because the Holy 
Fathers had thus decreed, having in mind, no doubt, 
their frivolity and their sinful nature. The formi- 
dable combat which he had been obliged to sustain 
was not against sensuality, but against his ana- 
lytical spirit, full of curiosity, enamored of science. 
His venerated master, the rector of the seminary, 
when he saw him devoting himself to the study of 
mathematics, physics, philosophy, had sounded the 
cry of alarm.* Why study so much? To what did 
science lead, as its ultimate result? That which 
was necessary to salvation could be learned in one 
day, one hour, one minute. The important thing 
is not to know, but to pray and labor. The vir- 
tuous man is the most learned, because he knows 
the road by which one reaches God, and follows it. 
These truths soon imposed themselves upon his 
spirit, warned him against his scientific curiosity, 
and impelled him to strangle it. Animated by the 
counsels and the advice of his master, he had 


FAITH. 55 

quenched the thirst for knowledge with the refresh- 
ment of prayer and penitence. 

He came, like him, to love the inexplicable, the 
absurd, because this satisfies better the longing of 
an enamored soul. 

He preserved against woman in the depths of his 
being that rancorous disdain which characterizes all 
mystics, not because of the influence which she may 
exercise over them, but because of the lamentable 
influence which she may unfold over other poor souls. 
On this occasion, the reports which were current 
regarding this young woman, her reputation as a 
capricious, eccentric person, awakened in him a 
certain sentiment of hostility, which was translated 
into a reproof as gentle in form as it was severe at 
bottom, when the young woman told him that she 
had had no motive in changing her confessor. 

“ I have found nothing bad in him. Only I think 
that he did not fully understand me.” She concluded 
her declaration, seeing herself hard pressed. 

“ Every minister of the Lord,” replied Father Gil 
severely, “ understands what is a sin, ’and that is 
sufficient.” 

But the confession which followed — long, sincere, 
fervent, watered more than once with tears — caused 
the clergyman to change his opinion. He com- 
prehended that he had not to deal with an ordinary 
soul, with a frivolous woman, but with a Christian 
of enthusiastic heart like his own, touched with 
divine love, and longing for perfection. There was, 
no doubt, considerable incoherence in her phrases. 
She related ridiculous, even stupid and unworthy, 


FAITH. 


56 

details at times, but at other times she showed her- 
self grand and strong, trampling her passions under 
foot, and launching her flight toward the light and 
the truth. There were moments in which her new 
confessor thought that he was scrutinizing the soul 
of a saint ; to such a degree did .the impulses, the 
mystic aspirations of this young woman resemble 
what he had read in the lives of Santa Teresa, Santa 
Catalina de Siena, and other glorious mothers of the 
Church. The narrative of the penitences with which 
she mortified her flesh made a vivid impression on 
him, and caused him to form a lofty conception of 
her. 

Without perceiving it, Obdulia ended, that even- 
ing, by making a general confession. As she com- 
municated to the new confessor the weaknesses of 
her temperament, the sinful impulses of her soul, 
her whole life recurred to her memory ; a very sad 
life, assuredly ! She was the daughter of the first 
wife whom her father had had ; she had not known 
her mother. Her father had married twice since, 
but her stepmothers had not lasted long. It was 
said in town that the wicked hunchback tickled his 
wives to death. This monstrous idea, which allured 
the imagination of the vulgar herd, was hurled on 
Obdulia’s ears by her companions at school, to make 
her angry. Oh, how much she had suffered through 
listening to them and observing the scorn, mingled 
with terror, which her father inspired. He was 
loving and indulgent to her. The poor girl did not 
understand the reason for such scorn, unless it were 
the hump which Nature had given him. It appeared 


FAITH. 


57 


to her, as was natural, a great injustice. Was he to 
blame for not having been born straight like other 
people? She still recalled with tears the night on 
which several intoxicated young men had bound 
him with bandages, and had ducked him repeatedly 
in the' sea, amid jests and laughter. Poor father! 
In what a state of wrath and misery he had reached 
home ! What the child did not know was, that 
these young men had surprised him in an obscure 
doorway in a very indecorous situation. She was 
frightened every time that she noted the fear which 
she inspired in her companions ; and when one of 
these, more kindly than the rest, showed her com- 
passion, she became violently irritated, maintaining 
that her father was very good and that he loved her 
dearly. Her constitution had always been poor and 
sickly, her life had been despaired of more than once. 
She had suffered since her childhood from violent 
bleeding at the nose, which left her bloodless, anni- 
hilated. For two years, between the ages of twelve 
and fourteen years, she had been paralyzed in both 
legs. Her father had taken her to various bathing 
establishments, but without result ; until one day, 
without knowing in the least how it came about, she 
suddenly began to walk. Her organism had ex- 
perienced many other disorders, especially during 
the period of adolescence ; but the most striking, or, 
at least, that one which most attracted to her the 
attention of the populace, and which was brought 
out prominently whenever shewas under discussion 
in the town, was an aberration of the appetite 
which impelled her to eat the plaster on the walls. 


58 


FAITH. 


In vain did her father and her teachers endeavor to 
break her of this vicious habit; in vain did they 
chastize her, shut her up, tie her hands. At the 
least lack of watchfulness she began to peel off the 
plaster and to make deep holes in it. 

These and other eccentricities disappeared when 
she reached maturity. There was a period, from 
her sixteenth to her twentieth year, when her health 
improved notably, and in which she became a dash- 
ing and comely young girl. But this flower soon 
faded. Her health broke down again, and although 
the strange disorders of the past were not repeated 
she began to decay visibly, and to suffer divers 
illnesses. Her friends and even her father attributed 
these sufferings to her long prayers and penitences. 
She had been seized with excessive affection for 
pious practices, for frequenting the sacraments, 
and remaining for hours in the church. Despite 
the warnings of everyone, and the entreaties of her 
father, she would never restrain her piety ; it increased 
every day. It is possible that the influence of D. 
Narciso played a large part in this matter. 

Obdulia had reached the age of eight and twenty 
without having had more than one love affair. When 
she was eighteen she had been betrothed to a young 
fellow from Lancia, who had passed a long time in 
Peflascosa in the house of one of her friends. Their 
love had reached the point of formal recognition. 
The wedding was discussed, the bride prepared her 
outfit, the day was set. Suddenly the lad’s father 
arrived from the Island of Cuba, and one night he 
packed him into the diligence and carried him off. 


FAITH. 


59 


no one knew whither. Since that miscarried mar- 
riage there had been nothing. The character of 
Obdulia, ordinarily cheerful, had, since that time, 
became melancholy and reserved. Divine love was, 
no doubt, a consolation to her in this calamity for 
human love. Her character underwent, at the same 
time, a strange exaltation. Formerly, any sort of 
censure had provoked her to laughter and had made 
no impression on her; now the most delicate re- 
mark moved her deeply, caused her to shed copious 
tears. Her self-love had become so nervous, so ex- 
citable, that it felt the slightest shock as though it 
had been the deep slash of a dagger. Her con- 
science accused her continually of pride. She sus- 
tained a cruel battle against herself, but could not 
succeed in calming this singular irritability. 

Father Gil sounded on that day, and on the suc- 
ceeding days (for Obdulia confessed in detail), with 
profound emotion a spirit which was genuinely pious, 
and which was rendered more interesting to him by 
his conflict with himself. It was one of those souls 
which he had only seen described in mystical books. 
Her ineffable sweetness, the submissiveness with 
which she received his counsels and warnings, fas- 
cinated and at the same time disquieted him, be- 
cause he distrusted hinjself deeply, feared lest he 
might not succeed in comprehending the ardent 
longings, the sublime secrets of a being superior to 
all those whom he had hitherto known. He began 
to lend intense attention to the strange confidences 
of the young woman, to her scruples, to her joys 
^ind terrors, to her visions— for she bad visions 


6o 


FAITH. 


from time to time. And it no longer surprised him 
that the other confessors had not understood her. 
He recalled what had happened to Santa Teresa, 
and with that example before him, he resolved not 
to despise as ridiculous certain details, signs of con- 
science always alert, nor to consider as hallucina- 
tions and tricks of vision the things which might 
very well be real favors of Heaven. 

That which impressed him most in the piety of 
his new penitent was her eagerness to mortify her 
flesh. She treated her body without compassion, a 
body as delicate as the shoot of a flower. She rose 
many times in the course of the night, to pray; at 
daybreak, on the dampest and coldest days in the 
year, she left the house to go to church, where she 
passed hours on her knees ; she fasted with a rigor 
which he had never beheld even in his ascetic mas- 
ter of the seminary, prolonged, terrible abstinences, 
which it seemed impossible to endure ; she wore 
haircloth on her arms and legs, and scourged herself 
on Fridays and on the eves of the appointed holi- 
days. The young priest had never felt this aliena- 
tion from the flesh, this hatred of the beast. In 
vain had his director sought to inculcate it in him, 
in vain had he labored all his life to acquire it. All 
was useless. Corporeal penitences pained him, over- 
whelmed him to such a degree that he was com- 
pelled to cease almost as soon as he began. 
He maltreated his spirit with great valor, he 
quenched in it every aspiration, every desire which 
seemed sinful to him, he humiliated it on every oc- 
casion ; but he feared physical pain like the most 


FAITH. 


6i 


sensitive damsel ; he accused himself of it to his 
confessor, and deplored it in his long and fervent 
orisons.^ Hence the harsh penances of the young 
woman caused him unlimited admiration. 

Everyone admires most that which he lacks. 
Never had he felt himself so humiliated or doubted 
so of his own virtue and his salvation. And accept- 
ing it as a warning from Heaven, he resolved to 
enter afresh upon this path of perfection, which has 
been trodden by so many who really desire to draw 
near to God. Encouraged by the example of this 
pious damsel, he began to maltreat his flesh as she 
maltreated hers; each one of her confidences served 
him as a model. He desired to fast rigorously also, 
to rise from his first sleep and pass an hour on his 
knees before the cross ; he tried to wear haircloth to 
scourge himself. It was a terrible combat with his 
nature, the pure and tranquil nature of a man with- 
out passions, who consequently does not feel the 
necessity for reducing them to subjection by dint of 
blows. 

His admiration for the virtuous damsel impelled 
him not only to take her as his example, but also as 
an adviser. He was so humble and innocent of 
heart that he felt ashamed at being obliged to direct 
and reprove a person whom, at bottom, he con- 
sidered his superior. Little by little, mutual confi- 
dences began. As the new ecclesiastic had no 
confessor in Peflascosa fitted to conduct his mys- 
tical education, he unconsciously opened his breast, 
and communicated to the young woman his joys, 
his triumphs, and his discouragements in the way of 


62 


FAITH. 


salvation which he had traced out for himself. It 
was a spiritual friendship, in which no other subject 
was treated except the service af God, in whkh they 
passed long spaces of time in sweet converse upon 
the things of Heaven. Neither were a few innocent 
jests lacking in their conversation, which enlivened 
them for a few brief moments. 

“When you get to Heaven,” said Father Gil with 
a smile, “ sitting greatly at your ease in the seat 
which belongs to you, how little you will recall your 
poor confessor, who will be suffering in Purgatory ! ” 

“Do not say that, father! If you do not go 
straight to Heaven, who will?” 

“Oh, no ! ” replied the priest with a sigh. “You 
have formed a very mistaken idea concerning me. 
. . . I am an unworthy sinner. . . I shall 

give God infinite thanks if He raises me from Pur- 
gatory, though I remain there thousands of years.” 

And the virtuous clergyman said it with all his 
heart. He believed in good faith that, because it 
was not possible for him to lacerate his flesh, he 
did not possess solid virtue, and he rejoiced from 
the bottom of his soul that he had stumbled upon a 
being who did enjoy that privilege. There fre- 
quently recurred to his memory the example of 
Father Gracidn, whom Santa Teresa had helped so 
greatly on the path of perfection by her virtues and 
counsels. His platonic love for asceticism impelled 
him to encourage instead of prudently repressing 
that of his client. Every mortification which the 
latter inflicted upon herself, and came, blushing and 
trembling, to relate to him in the confessional, 


FAITH. 


63 


caused him profound satisfaction, appeared to 
him a triumph over sin, and created the illusion 
that a part of the victory must be attributed to 
him. 

Many and varied were the things which the val- 
orous damsel inflicted upon her flesh in the space of 
a few months. As corrupt men cudgel their imagina- 
tion in search of fresh pleasures, so she excelled in the 
invention of divers torments for her delicate body. 
The approbation of her confessor, the eulogistic 
phrases which escaped from his lips in spite of him- 
self, undoubtedly heated her fancy and spurred on 
her impetuosity. One day she passed twenty-four 
hours without taking any food ; another day, she 
sprinkled ashes in the dish she liked best ; on an- 
other, she put on a chemise of coarse wool next her 
skin ; on another, she scourged herself until the 
blood flowed, etcetera. 

On a certain evening she approached the confes- 
sional with the most radiant of faces, with intense 
delight in her large, black, mysterious eyes. She 
had just won a fresh triumph over the enemy, and 
she was anxious to impart it to her confessor. But 
he, instead of entering into mystical converse, as on 
other occasions, and taking an affectionate interest 
in her penances, in her struggles with the flesh, 
restricted himself severely to her sins. Possibly it 
was a moment of melancholy or concentration of 
thought with him. He maintained an attitude of 
reserve, speaking little, treating her almost like a 
stranger. 

This reserve made an impression on the young 


64 


FAITH. 


woman. She found herself precisely in one of those 
moments of expansion in which spiritual joy over- 
flowed sins. She intended to make her virtuous 
confessor a participant in it, but the latter did his 
best to remain silent and to abbreviate the con- 
fession. The young woman rose at length, sadly, 
unable to repress a movement of vexation. She took 
a few steps through the chapel, which was deserted. 
Suddenly, unable to conquer the desire to let her 
confessor know the terrible penance which she had 
executed, she approached the confessional once more, 
not the window but the door. 

“ Father,” she said, in a trembling voice, stifled 
by emotion, “I forgot to 'tell you that last night I 
performed a penance that is, perhaps, a sin, through 
being excessive.” 

The young priest raised his eyes without under- 
standing well, expressing a mute interrogation. 

“ I burned myself with a smoothing-iron.” 

The confessor remained silent, gazing at her with 
inattentive eyes. 

“ I placed a hot iron against my arm ” 

The same silence. Father Gil was either thinking 
of something else, or astonishment had petrified 
him. 

No doubt Obdulia thought that the former was 
the case, for she said, with a certain vivacity : 

“Yes, sefior, I made this burn on my arm ” 

and at the same time she raised the sleeve of her 
gown and disclosed an ugly and painful wound on 
the forearm. 

The priest flushed crimson as a poppy, and turn- 


FAITH. 65 

ing his head hastily, he replied with asperity as he 
stared at the panels of the confessional : 

“Good, good. Stop it. It does seem to me to 
be excessive, in fact. Henceforth abstain from per- 
forming such penances without first consulting your 
confessor.’* 


III. 


At eight o’clock in the evening, after having 
supped with D. Miguel, and seen him retire to his 
bed in the sweet company of his flint-lock pistols. 
Father Gil sallied forth from the rectory in the 
direction of the house of his patroness, Dofta Eloisa 
Montesinos. He rarely attended the gathering 
which assembled at her house in the evenings. He 
had no taste for it, and the severe regulations of the 
rector’s house did not permit it. But his patroness 
had complained of his neglect ; it even seemed to 
him that she had grown colder toward him. Fear- 
ing lest he might be taxed with ingratitude, and 
really grieved, since he professed tender and respect- 
ful affection for the kind woman, he resolved to go 
more frequently, representing it thus to the rector. 

The rain of a violent squall beat in his face as 
he stepped outside of the door. He opened his 
umbrella, but a few paces further on the wind, 
which was blowing a hurricane across the Field of 
Discouragements, turned it wrong side out. Find- 
ing it impossible to close it, and feeling himself 
seized violently by the hurricane, the young vicar 
took refuge in the enormous black porch of Monte- 
sinos. He never passed it without feeling a certain 
quaking of fear and curiosity. In that gloomy 
palace dwelt a mysterious man of whom a thousand 
66 


FAITH. 


67 


strange stories were related, to whom were attrib- 
uted, moreover, scandalous ideas and phrases regard- 
ing religion and its ministers. The young ecclesi- 
astic hardly knew him. Don Alvaro Montesinos 
had passed nearly the whole of his life in Madrid. 
It was only two or three years since that he had come 
and established himself at Peftascosa. He lived in 
almost absolute retirement, strolling now and then, 
but rarely, on the seashore, entirely alone. The rest of 
his days he passed in the house, reading and writing 
impious articles, it was said. The clergy of Pefias- 
cosa spoke of him with rancorous disdain, which 
Father Gil had come to share without knowing him. 

He reduced his umbrella to order as best he 
might, and as the gusts of wind had subsided for a 
moment, he emerged from the porch, but not with- 
out casting a glance of fear and hostility at the great 
black door in its depths, at whose top burned sadly 
a small oil lamp behind a tiny, grated window. He 
emerged from the Field of Discouragements, and 
once in the street of the Quadrant (this was the 
name of the only great and inhabited street of Pe- 
fiascosa), the wind no longer blew so violently and he 
was able to make use of his umbrella and reach the 
house of Dofla Eloisa, situated on the Square, with- 
out getting seriously wet. 

The dwelling of D. Martin de las Casas was 
antique also, but considerably altered, much smaller 
than that of his brother-in-law, with all the conven- 
iences and additions exacted by modern ’require- 
ments : a porch o^ tiles with screen, a well-made 
staircase of poplar with a varnished handrail, the 


68 


FAITH. 


rooms decorated with elegant friezes and papers, 
and everything very ornamental and charming. 

“Glad to see you at last, father! How dear you 
sell yourself ! ” exclaimed Doha Eloisa, who had not 
addressed her port^g^ as thou since he had taken 
orders. 

At the same time she rose and kissed his hand 
with genuine affection. The same was done by 
Da. Rita; Obdulia, who had been an assiduous guest 
of the house for some time past; Marcelino, and also 
Da. Serafina Barrado, in spite of the sidelong glance 
which her chaplain, D. Joaquin, shot at her. Da. 
Marciala and Da. Filomena pretended not to notice 
him as they talked with D. Peregrin Casanova, and 
finally saluted him from their seats with a flattering 
smile. 

While the salutations were in progress, D. Nar- 
ciso, who was leaning against the piano, never took 
his eyes from his companion — eyes in which aversion 
and jealousy were plainly legible. Without Father 
Gil having provoked it, or even being really aware of 
it, a lively rivalry existed between him and D. Nar- 
ciso, from whom he had wrested more than half his 
daughters of confession. God knows that he had 
done nothing to effect this; on the contrary, rather, 
it distressed him greatly every time that one of 
them approached his confessional. But what was 
he to do? Nothing but confess them, since that 
was his duty. To lay much stress on their making 
no change in their confessor was to concede too 
much importance to the question of persons : it was 
not in accord with the spirit of the sacrament. But 


FAITH. 


69 


the chaplain of Sarri6 was not aware of his compan- 
ion’s intentions, or, if he was, it did not make much 
difference in his sentiments. He abode by the re- 
sult, and this was sad for him. Before the arrival 
of Gil, it may be said that he alone was encamped 
among the fair sex of Peftascosa and lorded it over 
their consciences. The other chaplains cast no 
shadow upon him. He was the petted child of the 
pious women. Not one of his jests, his steps, or his 
gestures passed unnoted : the pious souls who had 
the good fortune to hear them or witness them 
speedily took it upon themselves to spread the re- 
port of them among his female friends. 

Every moment he received undeniable testimony 
of the lively sympathy and veneration which he 
aroused in the town : presents of chasubles, of cor- 
porals embroidered by dainty fingers, satin collars, 
etc., etc.; still more substantial offerings of hams, 
bottles of sherry, tarts and chocolate; D. Narciso’s 
wants, both spiritual and temporal, were admirably 
supplied. He was a shepherd who fed his lambs 
happily, leading them gently in the path of virtue 
toward Paradise and shearing their rich fleece from 
time to time that they might not become entangled 
in the brambles. 

The appearance of his new colleague came to dis- 
turb this delicious mystic Arcadia. The lambs, sud- 
denly smitten with insane agitation, began to leap 
and rear up as' though they heard the tones of an 
enchanted flute. Neither stoning nor cajoling suf- 
ficed to retain the greater part of them. His flock 
diminished, and he, who had had the force to govern 


70 


FAITH. 


SO considerable a herd, was dismayed now at seeing 
himself left alone, at perceiving the hostility with 
which several of his ancient and beloved lambs re- 
garded hjm. Because not only did the rich foreign and 
national gifts of former days no longer find their 
way to his house, but he noticed with profound grief 
that people had begun to discuss him. It was said 
in the circle of pious dames, and it reached his ear, 
that it was a fact that although he had a greater gift 
of words than the young vicar, the greater part of 
the time “ there was no substance in what he said,” 
and that the other possessed great superiority over 
him in weight, in natural reason, and learning. There 
was an occasion when, as he launched one of his most 
poignant jests, relating«s usual to dirty matters, he 
hardly raised a smile in his auditors, and he learned 
that one of them, after her departure, had character- 
ized him as coarse and ill-bred. As to corporeal 
graces, there was nothing to be said, since he under- 
stood thoroughly that he could never compete with 
the delicate and elegant figure of his rival. In short, 
D. Narciso felt that he was undermined in his very 
foundations, and he feared he might fall to the ground 
at any moment. Hence, it is not surprising that 
the look and the salute with which he greeted the 
young priest were even less affectionate than the 
latter had a right to expect. It did not in the least 
resemble the amiable reception which Saint John 
the Baptist, a master beloved and celebrated, gave 
to the young and divine Disciple who was destined 
to eclipse him in the sequel. 

“ Don’t dispute, woman. Do you happen to know 


FAITH. 


71 


whether it would be easy for you to go out at night, 
with the fear of robbers which D. Miguel cher- 
ishes ?” shouted D. Martin de las Casas from the 
ombre table, where he was playing with the others, 
a priest and a layman. 

“No, sefior; that’s notit,” said the ecclesiastic, 
coloring up under the glances of the whole as- 
sembly. 

“ That D. Miguel is not afraid of robbers ? ” asked 
Sefior de las Casas in an affectedly abrupt tone. 

“Yes, he is,” replied the young man, smiling 
gently, and seating himself at the same time beside 
his godmother. “ He must have his own reasons. 
The rich are those who fear. The poor, like myself, 
are tranquil.” 

“ But has the rector as much money as they say ? ” 
asked Da. Marciala curiously. 

“ I cannot tell you, sefiora. I presume that he 
has, since he pays great attention to his property. 
His expenses are small, and instead of increasing 
them he restricts them more and more every day. 
Where much comes in and little goes out, there 
cannat fail to be a pile.” 

“ The parish fees must produce a great deal, do 
they not?” asked the wife of the apothecary on the 
Square, with still greater curiosity. 

“ You must understand that in so extensive a parish 
as this they cannot be small.” 

“But D. Miguel must remit many of them,” re- 
plied the lady, with a slightly comical inflection in 
her voice. 

“It is possible, sefiora. For my part, I have not 


72 


FAITH. 


seen it,” replied the vicar, with perfect ingenuous- 
ness. 

D. Narciso and D. Joaquin, the chaplain of 
Seflora de Barrado, exchanged a rapid and signifi- 
cant glance. 

This chaplain was a slender young man, with 
roses in his cheeks, the sign of a sickly constitution, 
vivacious and insolent eyes, a thin nose, small 
mouth, with a hypocritical and malicious crease. 
He had been a serving-lad, whom Dofla Serafina 
had taken into her house to. run on errands and wait 
at table, shortly after she had been left a widow. 
Observing his cleverness, and taking a fancy to him, 
she had transferred her domicile to Lancia for a 
time, and provided him with a career by sending 
him to the seminary. 

Joaquin continued to discharge his duties as ser- 
vant. As soon as he took orders, she made him her 
manager; at the present time he was her hands and 
her feet. She never went into the street except in 
his company; he was her spiritual director and her 
temporal adviser. A curious spectacle, in truth, 
this sudden transformation of a servant intcf the 
master of his own mistress. She addressed him like 
a gentleman, always called him Don Joaquin, and, 
in public, at least, lavished upon him a thousand 
tokens of respect, thus obliging the servants to 
treat him likewise. 

Da. Eloisa returned to her persistent inquiry, ask- 
ing in an affectionate tone : 

Then what is the reason of his retreat, you 
rogue ? ” 


FAITH. 


73 


'‘Sefiora,. I can understand that D. Miguel does 
not much relish going out at night ; but the princi- 
pal reason is that on most days I am fagged out, as 
I rise at four o’clock in the morning. On other 
occasions, I have to pray a little ” 

“You work too hard, father,” said Marcelina, a 
young unmarried woman, who was verging on forty, 
so people said, ugly, parchment-like, very clever with 
her hands, and no less so with her tongue. “ So 
many hours of confessional ! And then, the 
sick— — ” 

“ Without reckoning the hours which he passes 
on his knees in prayer,” suggested Obdulia timidly. 
After she had uttered the phrase, she blushed. 

D. Narciso darted at her a singular glance, half- 
ironical, half-aggressive, which the young woman 
could not see, because she made it a point not to 
look her former confessor in the face. 

.Annoyed by these eulogies. Father Gil made a 
gesture of impatience, and, in order to turn the con- 
versation from his person, he accosted one of the 
ombre players. 

“ Sefior Consejero, I saw you from the rectory 
to-day draw up a very large fish with your rod. It 
seemed to me that it must be a red mullet, but D. 
Miguel thought it was a perch.” 

“ The rector has better eyes than you. It was a 
perch,” said the gentleman addressed, without rais- 
ing his face from the cards. 

This Don Romualdo Consejero was an old gentle- 
man with a mustache and short white whiskers, a 
lemon-colored complexion, a brow deeply furrowed, 


74 


FAITH. 


large, severe eyes, and drooping eyelids. He never 
smiled. He always spoke in an ill-tempered tone, 
like a man who has had all his illusions de- 
stroyed. 

“ Red mullet do not come to the pier, Don Gil of 
the green breeches,” remarked Seflor de las Casas, 
with his customary roughness, not to say coarseness. 
He was in the habit of calling his former prot^g^ by 
this name. 

“ Yes, they do, D. Martin of the White Houses,” 
responded Consejero in a low voice. 

The guests laughed, which rather angered D. 
Martin, who was, as we have seen, a man prone to 
irritation. “ I thought they did not. Counselor of 
Knaves,” he retorted in an affected tone, looking 
him fixedly in the face, and, at the same time, 
throwing on the table a king of hearts. 

“Then you thought wrong,” replied the old man, 
with his eyes still on his cards. “You also thought 
that this king of hearts was going to triumph, and — 
you see I trump ! ” 

“You will do it because you are a coarse fellow 
and acquired evil habits yonder in the direction of 
Malaga. Here is Father Norberto, who certainly 
would not have done it.” 

“ No, no, I am incapable,”said the priest, sti- 
fling his laughter, and coughing until he nearly 
burst ; “ I do not spring from Peflascosa. What I do 
is to shorten sail, and risk this point of diamonds 
of my companion.” 

And he laid a four spot on the table. 

“Hurrah for the Cure!” roared D. Martin, 


FAITH. 75 

throwing down the horseman (equivalent to the 
queen) and gathering up the trick. 

“Friend, I thought that D. Martin would not 
have the horseman,’' sighed D. Norberto, addressing 
Consejero with eyes of anguish. 

“ You thought so because you are a stupid fel- 
low, and have been so all your life,” the other re- 
plied with an affectation of naturalness, through 
which wrath peeped forth. 

“ But, man of God ! ” exclaimed the ecclesiastic, 
preparing to give explanations. 

Consejero cut him short with wrathful mien, lay- 
ing his cards resolutely face downward on the 
table. 

“ Man of the devil, I say ! How did it ever 
come into your head to risk a point, when you were 
not covered ? ” 

A violent dispute arose, which lasted a few 
moments. The disputes of Consejero and Father 
Norberto did not occupy much time, because the 
latter, a good sort of a man, and phlegmatic, ended 
by holding his tongue, shrugging his shoulders re- 
signedly, and shaking his head at the same time in 
sign of mute protest. The quarrels which did en- 
dure forever were those of Consejero and Don 
Martin, each being more irascible and obstinate 
than the other. 

D. Martin de las Casas, a retired lieutenant- 
colonel who had been through the war in Cuba, 
where he had been wounded in one shoulder, which 
prevented his remaining in the service, thought 
himself justified, by virtue of his profession, in 


76 


FAITH. 


carrying everything with a high hand. Since the 
year 1873, when he had passed into the body of In- 
valids, he had not quitted Pefiascosa. At that 
time he was forty-two years of age. His wife re- 
joiced in this forced retirement, although she re- 
gretted that he should return to the bosom of his 
family with a cotton shoulder. He regarded it as 
the lofty and exclusive virtue of the military man, 
to exhibit the same energy as on the field of battle 
when drinking his coffee in the club. His disputes, 
his boastings, in this center of recreation, were 
proverbial in Pefiascosa, and the cuffs which he was 
accustomed to distribute at the end of them. As 
soon as the terrible lieutenant-colonel arrived, 
no citizen, however grave and respectable, felt 
safe. Many gentlemen and wealthy landed pro- 
prietors of the town, who up to that time had kept 
their cheeks immaculate, and did not dream that 
anyone could attack them, beheld them sealed and 
reddened, when they least expected it, by the 
fingers of the ferocious veteran. This caused a slow 
reflux of opinion among his friends and acquaint- 
ances, who had received him cordially on his re- 
turn from service. Exercise, in this case, did not 
engender warmth but cold. Little by little they 
began to leave him in isolation, considering his so- 
ciety dangerous. He saw himself obliged to as- 
sociate with petty gentry, with ecclesiastics, who, 
on account of their sacred character, were safe from 
his over-hasty hands, or seemed so at least. At 
the club he was nearly always to be seen in the 
company of two petty clerks in commercial houses. 


FAITH. 


77 


a professor of music, a superintendent of works, 
and two or three others of the same rank. They 
listened to him as to an oracle, and if, occasionally, 
in the heat of improvisation, he dealt them a box 
on the ear, they swore a little to maintain their 
dignity, and eventually resumed their good terms 
with him. 

Consejero formed an exception. He had a dis- 
position that was even worse. In that of D. Mar- 
tin there was much that was affected and profes- 
sional : that of the latter was genuine and native. 
But his advanced age, his physical weakness, and 
his failings sheltered him from the brutal assaults 
of his friend. His friend was accustomed to wind 
up the dispute with a violent gesture of disdain. 
Sometimes he went so far as to say to him : “D. 

Romualdo, if you were thirty years younger, I 
would crush you against the wall.” 

D. Romualdo lived alone. A son of his, who had 
been employed in Malaga, had died four years be- 
fore. He enjoyed a small income, sufficient to sup- 
ply his small needs, and he had no other occupa- 
tion than fishing with rod and line, and no other 
recreation than playing ombre. His whole life was 
divided between fish-hooks and cards. He passed 
the: entire morning seated on a camp-chair on the 
pier or on the rocks behind the church, with a 
broad rimmed hat when it was sunny and an um- 
brella when it rained ; in the afternoon, ombre at 
the club until four o’clock, when he took to his rod 
again. At night, ombre at the house of D. Martin, 
in company of the latter and of D. Norberto. 


78 


FAITH. 


The latter was an ecclesiastic, who might have been 
taken for about forty years of age, although he 
was considerably past fifty, corpulent, robust, high- 
colored, with admirable teeth, eyes round and 
prominent, a thin nose, not a gray hair in his head 
nor a wrinkle on his face. He spoke little and 
laughed much. Everything pleased him : he lived 
in a continual spasm of joy and wonder. He ap- 
plauded every insipidity of his friends as the most 
witty of jests to the point of beholding his belly 
shake with the fits of laughter. And he laughed 
in good faith, without the slightest hypocrisy or 
adulation, which, as is logical, flattered the self-love 
of those around him. For this reason, perhaps, 
Father Norberto enjoyed general sympathy in 
town, and was not disliked by his colleagues. He 
had but three passions : stewed tripe, ombre, and 
another of which we shall speak further on. When 
there was tripe for dinner or supper in any of the 
houses which he frequented, everyone knew that it 
was the rule to invite him. He helped himself to 
two or three heaping platters and unbuttoned his 
cassock, his brow began to steam, and they were 
obliged to allow him to repose for an hour on a 
bed ; otherwise he ran the risk of bursting like a 
bomb. Consejero was accustomed to say that every 
day he ate more tripe and played ombre worse. 
And he never uttered this phrase that the good 
clergyman did not writhe and stifle with laughter. 
Jests never grew stale for him. 

The ladies speedily turned their attention from 
the ombre players when the latter began to dis- 


FAITH. 


79 


pute. There was a bit of a quarrel of this sort 
every evening. 

‘‘And you also, D. Narciso, were not here either 
yesterday or the day before. What has become 
of you? Do you also pray at night ?” said Da. 
Marciala, who was knitting a stocking near the 
table of the card-players ; from time to time she 
raised her hands toward the players’ light to pick 
up a stitch which she had dropped. 

“No, seflora, I am not much of a praying man. 
I do not possess the virtue of prayer. On the 
other hand, I abstain from certain vices, such as 
murmuring against my superiors and colleagues,” 
remarked the chaplain, in an insolent tone, gazing 
affectedly at the ceiling. 

The allusion was aimed straight at the vicar, wlip 
had just spoken of the rector’s avarice. Thus he 
understood it clearly, and if he had not understood 
it the eyes of the people about him would have be- 
trayed it. In the presence of this brutal attack his 
face flamed like a live coal. The malicious laughter 
of D. Joaquin and D. Melchor completed his per- 
turbation. 

“ That’s not bad, man! ho ! ho ! I like that ! ho! 
ho ! That’s good about abstaining. Very good ! 
You have wit, D. Narciso! Much wit! ho! ho!” 

Father Melchor laughed at the top of his voice, 
in a coarse and insolent manner, glancing alternately 
at the young vicar and at D. Narciso. Doha Sera- 
fina’s chaplain also laughed a piercing, petty laugh, 
which he made a pretense of stifling by raising a 
handkerchief to his nose. The ladies remained se- 


8o 


FAITH. 


rious and disgusted, comprehending the venomous 
intention of the chaplain of Sarrid. Only Da. 
Marciala smiled in his face, and applauded him. 

On Obdulia the dart produced a more painful 
impression than on her confessor. She felt herself 
seized by a strange sensation of cold, accompanied 
by a slight trembling ; immediately after, flashes of 
heat rushed to her face, and with them a lively, 
irrational desire to fling herself upon D. Narciso 
and scratch him. It cost her an immense effort to 
control her impulse. 

“ It is bad to murmur,” said Da. Serafina Barrado, 
to break up the embarrassing silence which pre- 
vailed, disgusted, like the rest, by this unjustifiable 
attack ; “ but very often that is taken for murmur- 
i(|g which is not murmuring. People talk of some 
person — for the sake of talking about something, 
with no intention of offending him. We even laugh 
at his freaks, and do not, for this, cease to esteem 
him, nor do we think ourselves superior to 
him ” 

On reaching this point, her eyes encountered those 
of her chaplain, who had ceased to laugh, and had 
riveted on her a gaze cold and cutting as an Alba- 
cete dagger. The poor lady stopped short, and only 
found breath enough to conclude, in a low voice: 
‘‘At least, that is what happens with me.” 

“ And it happens with everyone who has a frank 
heart, seftora,” said Obdulia impetuously. “Only 
the envious, the evil-intentioned know how to gild 
the pill of venom, and thrust in the dagger, when 
they appear to be giving a caress.” 


FAITH. 


8i 


The young woman’s voice sodnded strange, a 
little hoarse. 

D. Narciso gave vent to a malicious little smile, 
and said in an ironical tone : “ Behold how many 

things concerning moral theology the seflorita 
knows ! We shall have to declare her a doctress of 
the Church, like Santa Teresa.” 

“ Caramba, that’s not bad either ! ho ! ho ! Doc- 
tress of the Church, forsooth ! ho ! ho ! How 
mischievous that D. Narciso is ! ho ! ho ! ho! D. 
Narciso is strong ! ” 

“ Don’t laugh so hard, D. Melchor, or your false 
teeth may fall out,” said the young woman, through 
whose eyes flashed a lightning of wrath. 

Father Melchor stopped laughing suddenly. 
This ecclesiastic, aged from thirty-five to forty, tall^ 
with regular features, large, expressionless black 
eyes, and a melancholy, discomposed face, made 
pretensions to elegance, so public rumor declared, 
as well as to intelligence, maliciousness, enlighten- 
ment, et cetera, et cetera. Obdulia’s remark pro- 
duced a terrible effect on him, because he imag- 
ined that no one knew about his false teeth, except 
God and the dentist in Lancia who had made them. 
He muttered a few incoherent phrases, but Obdulia 
continued, without heeding him : 

“ All that I know about theology is, that priests 
are obliged to pray, and that to make a boast of not 
praying is more fitted for the impious than for the 
ministers of the Lord.” 

She said it with calmness and naturalness, which 
rnade the scratch more incisive and profound. 


82 


FAITH. 


“And where have you learned so much, sefi- 
orita ? ” asked D. Narciso, already disconcerted. 

“ I learned it in the explanatory catechism and in 
the sermons of the Canon of Lancia— whom people 
here say that you imitate — but only in your ges- 
tures, you know ?” 

D. Narciso was wounded in the most sensitive 
part of his being, for he did, in fact, do everything 
in his power to resemble the Canon, a celebrated 
sacred orator. He remained silent for several 
minutes, and was preparing to retort, when the en- 
trance of a new young lady, named Candida, tall, 
thin, withered and narrow-minded, a member of the 
codfish family, put an end to the sharpshooting. D. 
Narciso was in luck, for he stood a good chance of 
losing in the dispute. Obdulia possessed the most 
lively sort of imagination, and before she had turned 
her attention to mysticism she ha,d enjoyed among 
her friends the reputation of being dashing and witty. 

Da. Eloisa took advantage of the opportunity to 
change the conversation, which was becoming dan- 
gerous. Da. Teodora entered in the wake of Can- 
dida. She was accompanied by D. Juan Casanova. 
This upright and majestic cavalier had had the 
habit, since time immemorial, of visiting Da. Teo- 
dora in the evenings. When the latter came to the 
assembly of her friend, Dofia Eloisa, which hap- 
pened once or twice a week, he accompanied her 
along with her maid. D. Peregrin, since his return 
from his bureaucratic excursion to Catalufta, had 
also acquired the habit of passing a part of every 
evening at Da. Teodora’s house. 


FAITH. 


83 


It is impossible to solve the problem as to when 
and how the idea of supplanting his brother in the 
heart of the well preserved maiden lady had entered 
the mind of the former ofificial .of the civil govern- 
ment of Tarragona ; but it is a well attested fact 
that it did occur to him, and that it developed itself 
with extraordinary force in a very short space of 
time. He began to pay her. a thousand attentions, 
to amuse her with the savory account of his reminis- 
cences as an official, to display in her presence a 
subtle mind, a marvelous facility for puns. Thus he 
contrived to demonstrate his incontestable intellect- 
ual superiority over his brother, advocating the con- 
trary of whatever the latter said, smiling depreciat- 
ingly when he spoke ; in short, harassing him in a 
thousand ways. Nevertheless, Da. Teodora offered 
tenacious resistance to this attempt at supplanting. 
Although she myst have been convinced of D. Pere- 
grin’s superiority, as a man of the world and a 
learned man, she continued, none the less, to lavish 
upon D. Juan the same tokens of affection as usual. 
On the contrary, his brother’s depreciation served 
no other purpose than to make her manifest them 
more intensely than before. This filled D. Pere- 
grin's heart with bitterness. It constituted the 
strongest motive for rancor among the many which 
he cherished against his brother, beginning with the 
latter’s stature. 

Candida stepped forward to kiss the hand of D. 
Melchqf, of whom she was the spiritual daughter in 
confession, and consoled him with the respect, sub- 
mission, and affection with which she began to talk 


84 


FAITH. 


to him, for the calamity which had just befallen 
him. 

Hardly were all settled once more, when D. Pere- 
grin, who, up to that time had confined himself to 
an ordinary degree of loquacity, stimulated by the 
presence of Da. Teodora, took it into his head to 
give a dashing proof of his marvelous capacities for 
rendering any evening party agreeable. He seized 
by the hair the opportunity with which D. Narciso 
furnished him, by censuring the badly paved streets 
of Peflascosa, to say in his snuffling and penetrating 
voice, in the middle of a pause : 

When I was Governor of Tarragona ” 

‘‘ Tarragona has made its appearance already,” 
said Consejero in a dull tone, as he shuffled the 
cards. 

Those who were near him heard the exclamation 
and laughed. The noise reached the ears of D 
Peregrin, who paused a moment and cast a cow- 
ardly glance at Consejero. Then he continued his 
anecdote, with decision. The fortnight during 
which he had had charge of the government of Tarra- 
gona, owing to the absence of the governor and the 
illness of his secretary, was the golden age in the 
existence of D. Peregrin ; the sweet and poetic 
period whose memory always made his heart vibrate. 
How many events had occurred in those fourteen 
days! How many brilliant images of glory and 
power surged up in his mind at the thought of 
them ! The most insignificant details of this very 
beautiful dream he had present before him, as 
though they had just come to pass. He could tell 


FAITH. 


85 


how many times it had rained during that fortnight, 
what he had eaten and drunk, what was the color of 
the trousers which he had worn. For some time, 
when he spoke of this epoch, he was accustomed to 
say : When I was acting Governor in Tarragona,” 
but later on he changed the phrase for the following : 
“ When I was Governor of Tarragona.” 

And when he was governor, it had come to pass 
that the local press complained of the neglected 
state of the streets, ascribing it, along with the other 
things which were going badly, to the conservative 
administration. Then he, charged with watching 
over the government and the party, had summoned 
the mayor to his room, and had said to him : “ My 

friend ” Here followed a tirade of remark's 

which D. Peregrin rendered gradually more ener- 
getic every time that he repeated it until it was con- 
verted into the ^severest sort of a philippic. The 
mayor replied to him thus and so (the mayor’s reply 
grew gradually weaker and more insignificant). 
Then he, without being in the slightest degree dis- 
composed, with the greatest calmness, like a person 
who is saying nothing of consequence, made an- 
swer to him : “ My dear mayor, you have the 

choice between two courses : either suspension or 

putting the streets in order immediately ” “On 

the following day, very early, two gangs of laborers 
were at work on the streets,” D. Peregrin wound up, 
with a cold, malicious smile. This conclusion and 
the smile were the only things which did not un- 
dergo slow alteration in the interesting anecdote. 

Either because they had already heard it many 


86 


FAITH. 


times, or because their minds were not in tune for 
this class of administrative confidences, the fact is 
that very few evening assemblies paid any heed to 
them. The guests chatted with each other, in pairs 
and in groups of three or four. Candida whispered 
with D. Melchor, Da. Eloisa with her godson. 
Father Gil and Obdulia, D. Joaquin with Marcelina, 
and Father Narciso with Da. Filomena. We 
can safely assert that the only persons who really 
listened to the ex-governor ad interiniy of Tarra- 
gona, were his brother and Da. Teodora, that is to 
say, those who already knew the details of his ad- 
ministrative rule as well as he did himself. For Da. 
Serafina Barrados, although she remained motion- 
less, with her eyes fixed on the orator, presented 
such vagueness in her .gaze that it was evident that 
her mind was very far away from the subject. What 
this lady was listening to, with imperceptible quivers 
of grief and wrath, was the sound of her chaplain 
chatting with Marcelina. For some time past D. 
Joaquin had beei\ paying much attention to this 
young woman, his penitent. The distinctions in her 
favor went to the very soul of Da. Serafina, who 
evidently desired to monopolize them. Taking into 
account the fact that the chaplain was wholly her 
creation, it appeared as though she had a right to 
him. But he did not think so, or felt a pleasure in 
agitating her with unjustifiable exhibitions of indif- 
ference and rudeness. Not a day passed without 
the good woman encountering some rebuff or other 
from \\^x protege. Perhaps she took things wrong; 
but the priest, knowing the susceptible and jealous 


FAITH. 


87 


affection which she cherished for him, should have 
shown m.ore care in avoiding them. Now she 
noticed very clearly that his asides and whispers 
were intentional ; perhaps their object was to chas- 
tize her for the indirect defense which she had 
offered to Father Gil, whom D. Joaquin detested. 

Da. Marciala, more frank or more choleric, hardly 
took her eyes from D. Narciso and Da. Filomena, 
scrutinizing, uneasy eyes, through which lightnings 
of rage flashed from time to time. In the centers 
of gossip of the town, it was said that Da. Marciala 
was in love with Father Narciso. Although this 
was not credible, in connection with a lady who had 
shown herself very circumspect and religious all her 
life, there is no doubt that her familiarities with the 
clergyman might give rise to crooked interpretations 
among people inclined to think evil of their neigh- 
bors. She had married late in life, when she was 
already over thirty years of age, D. Jos6 Maria, the 
apothecary on the square. The latter, who had 
been a rabid republican all his life, who rarely went 
to church, and who assembled in his back room 
behind his shop of a night, a group of democrats 
(the pious women of the place called them masons), 
had been changing ffis opinion, little by little, under 
the influence of his pious wife. He began by with- 
drawing from politics, and dropping his subscription 
to The hisurrection ; then he proceeded to eliminate 
from his assembly the most extravagant and danger- 
ous persons ; then he was seen to exchange courteous 
salutes with various priests. Finally, when a mis- 
sion of Jesuits came to town, Da. Marciala succeeded 


88 


FAITH. 


in getting him to confess to one of them. Since 
that day a complete and radical change had been 
effected in the life of D. Jose Maria. The ferocious 
republican, the [subscriber to The Insurrection, was 
transformed into an associate of St. Vincent de Paul, 
brother of the Sacred Heart. He shone in pro- 
cessions, mounted guard over the Holy Sacrament, 
with a scapular on his neck, etc., etc. And he not 
only practiced all the religious acts of a fervent 
believer, but he took to being accompanied by eccle- 
siastics, and to receiving them in his back shop, 
instead of the impious persons who had formerly 
gone there; so that, after a time, his shop came to 
be the center of reunion for the sticklers for tradition 
in Peftascosa. Such was the meritorious work 
carried out with singular fortitude and cleverness by 
Da. Marciala. In this she had been much aided by 
the counsels of Father Narciso. Perhaps it was for 
this reason that her soul remained so bound up in, 
and grateful to her director, that for lack of knowing 
how to contain herself, she had furnished pabulum 
to and stimulated the evil tongues of Peftascosa. 

She was, as we know, one of those who had con- 
tributed to the education and career of Father Gil ; 
but in the desertion which took place in D. Narciso’s 
flock, after the arrival of the former, she had *re- 
mained faithful. Perhaps she was aided in standing 
up for him by the flight of Obdulia, of whom, rumor 
said, she was ragingly jealous, and from all appear- 
ances she did not lack reasons. She aspired to take 
the place of the latter in the good graces of the 
eloquent and witty priest, and she had almost sue- 


FAITH. 


89 


ceeded. Unfortunately, Da. Filomena had inter- 
posed herself in her way — the widow with whom we 
are already acquainted, who admired her spiritual 
director with more modesty and reserve, and lavished 
upon him in silence and in shadow a thousand 
delicate attentions which had ended by making an 
impression Upon his heart. This did not mean that 
he had ceased to consider and attend duly to Da. 
Marciala ; but for some time, in that quarter, it had 
been observed that he showed more inclination for 
Da. Filomena, although never, of course, so marked 
as he had felt for Obdulia. 

In Da. Eloisa’s evening assembly a thousand 
sweet sentiments were in agitation, which were 
always accompanied by other bitter ones, as shadow 
accompanies light. Various young unmarried 
women, whom time and disenchantments had ren- 
dered more reflective, several married dames, in 
whom their husbands had not succeeded in extin- 
guishing the thirst for the infinite, and some widow 
or other, in need of counsel, assembled every even- 
ing around half a dozen priests forming an inter- 
esting and touching group. This little, world, 
utterly foreign to the struggles of politics, science, 
and material interests, represented a delicious oasis 
in the midst of the general corruption of manners. 
The perfect submission of these feminine souls to 
their directors, the benevolence and tenderness with 
which the latter strove to lead them in the path of 
virtue, lent to the gathering a tranquil, innocent, and 
pious character, which was certainly not to be found 
in the exclusively secular assemblies. There existed 


90 


FAITH. 


here a happy admixture of the spiritual and tem- 
poral ; it formed an approximate image of what the 
reign of God on earth must be like. 

The mystic flock separated, as was natural. Each 
ecclesiastic had his own spiritual daughters who 
obeyed and admired him. And they, profiting, like 
the skillful shepherds they were, by th^ character 
and condition of each sheep, were accustomed to 
stimulate them by means of suitable maneuvers, 
now flattering their self-love, now mortifying it with 
jealousy, now with salutary coolness, again with 
adequate cajolery. It was not all knitting stockings 
or crocheting counterpanes ; they also paid their 
homage to music. Father Norberto was the organist 
of the church, and although he knew but little pro- 
fane music, he played a few “Nocturnes,’* and when he 
did not, he accompanied Father Narciso, who^ among 
his many accomplishments, possessed that of playing 
on the flute two or three Spanish dances and the 
Symphony from “Jeanne d^Arc.” Marcelina could 
also sing “ The Confident Star,” and the “ Prayer to 
the Virgin.” D. Melchor knew some sleight-of-hand 
tricks ; D. Peregrin Casanova seasoned the assembly 
with well-salted tales ; Cdndida recited admirably, 
on the piano, several moral fables ; and lastly, 
Father Joaquin played some musical piece or 
other by scraping his finger nails on his teeth, 
and imitated the crow of the cock with such per- 
fection that no one could fail to mistake him for 
the biped. 

On this particular evening there was no music. 
Minds were somewhat distracted. A certain un- 


FAITH. 


91 


easiness reigned in the assembly, caused by the 
presence of Father Gil, for whom none of his col- 
leagues, with the exception of Father Norberto, 
showed any sympathy. The conversation strayed 
from one subject to another, all of little moment. 
During a silence, D. Juan Casanova, who held his 
head on one side, no doubt on account of the ex- 
cessive weight of his brain, relieved it somewhat by 
remarking with his customary solemnity : 

“ Eloisa, I came across your brother to-day, in 
the promenade of the Atalaya. He wore checked 
trousers.” 

Dona Eloisa sighed, as she always did when the 
subject of her brother was broached. He has 
been rather ill lately. The servant-man told me,” 
she said, directing a timid glance at the table where 
her husband was playing cards. 

D. Martin and his brother-in-law had had no inter- 
course for a good while past. They had broken off 
with each other in a violent manner, on the despic- 
able ground of a piece of domestic furniture which 
the latter had tried to remove to his house, without 
any right whatever. D. Martin had thrust his fist in 
the face of his brother-in-law (how could he do other- 
wise?), and more than that, he had bidden him 
defiance. Since that time there had been absolute 
separation between them. D. Alvaro lived entirely 
alone in his enormous house, and D. Martin lived 
with his wife in his. His wife went to visit her 
brother from time to time, on the sly, unknown to 
D. Martin. 

“ He does not appear to enjoy good health,” said 


92 


FAITH. 


Father Gil, who took an interest in this man, with- 
out knowing why. 

“ Oh, he is extremely sickly and delicate. Only, 
by taking much care of himself, he may continue to 
live." 

The ecclesiastics, as usual,-when Montesinos was 
discussed in the presence of his sister, preserved a 
gloomy silence, with long and clouded faces. If it 
had been anyone but she, they would certainly have 
uttered some phrase of indignation or some sarcasm 
against that impious man, who had scandalized the 
town with his opinions, and with his conduct. It 
was with great difficulty that they respected the 
close bonds of relationship. 

A lugubrious silence ensued, because the ladies, 
comprehending what was going on in the breasts of 
their spiritual directors, dared not speak. D. Eloisa 
heaved another sigh, and said with a grieved tone, 
as though she were finishing a monologue, in a loud 
voice : 

“What a pity that they should have perverted 
him in Madrid ! Alvaro has a good heart, and 
everyone says that he is a man of talent." 

The ecclesiastics felt themselves aggrieved by these 
eulogies. One of them. Father Melchor, ventured 
to say, with a self-sufficient smile : 

“ Permit me, seflora, not to recognize talent in 
anyone who does not admit the truths of our holy 
religion." 

“At all events, he was the first in his class, 
and he passed among his professors for a clever 
youth." 


FAITH. 


93 


** So he must be, seftora,” said Father Gil, who 
was disgusted at the aggressive tone of his colleague. 
“ He may have talent, and yet be blinded on some 
points. Your brother is so, unfortunately, on that 
point which is of most interest for man. But that 
is no reason for denying him talent. The great 
heresiarchs had talent ; if it were not so, assuredly 
they would not have been able to give the appear- 
ance of truth to error, and deceive the people.” 

Although he felt wounded to the quick by this 
indirect reply. Father Melchor dared not retort, and 
preferred to swallow his grievance and play the ab- 
sent-minded. Although they did not acknowledge 
the fact, all the ecclesiastics in Pefiascosa felt the 
superiority of Father Gil, which they ascribed, of 
course, to his being the only one among them who 
had followed an extensive course of theology. But 
no one attempted to contradict him, for fear of cut- 
ting a sorry figure. 

The conversation turned in another direction. 
They chatted in an animated manner over the pro- 
ject of building a new church, near the Square, which 
had been set in motion by some of the townspeople, 
and which the rector opposed with all his might, for 
fear the parish would be divided. The players con- 
tinued their alternate silences and uproarious alter- 
cations. Father Gil remained mute and thoughtful, 
impressed by what he had just seen and heard. 
The face of Montesinos, whom he had not seen 
more than three or four times in his life, and that 
from afar, floated before his imagination, awaken- 
ing in it a lively curiosity. The affirmation of Da, 


94 


FAITH. 


Eloisa, that he had always been the first among 
his fellow-scholars, contributed to make this man 
greater, not to say more interesting, in his eyes. A 
vague, indefinite desire to approach and conquer 
him dawned in his mind. When the arrival of D. 
Jos^ Maria, the apothecary, and of Osuna, gave the 
signal for the breaking up of the assembly, this idea 
was still wandering through his brain, in search of 
form. 

The night was cloudy and gloomy. The sky let 
fall persistently a fine, cold rain. At the door of the 
house the visitors parted : the majority of them re- 
mained in the vicinity of the place, others proceeded 
along the street of the Quadrant. They separated 
gradually, all along it, until there remained only 
Father Gil, Osuna and his daughter, the only ones 
who lived in the Field of Discouragements. Obdulia 
maneuvered to get Father Gil to shelter her with his 
umbrella. The hunchback walked behind, satisfied 
to escape the humiliation of having his daughter 
shelter him, as always happened, owing to the great 
difference in their stature. 

They walked for several moments in silence, 
listening to the distant roar of the sea, which beat 
against the rocks, and the light sound of the rain on 
their umbrellas. The young woman was waiting 
for Father Gil to turn the conversation on his alter- 
cation with Father Narciso, and intentionally pro- 
longed the silence indefinitely. Perceiving that he 
was taciturn and abstracted, she ventured to say to 
him, in a trembling voice : 

“ Are you angry with me, father? 


FAITH. 


95 


“ For what?” asked the priest with surprise, sud- 
denly emerging from his meditation. 

“For the dispute that I had with D. Narciso.” 

“ Ah ! yes ; in fact, I was not pleased with the 
rebellious attitude which you assumed toward him. 
It is unworthy of a humble and virtuous young 
woman like you.” 

Obdulia remained silent, feeling in her heart the 
censure of her director. Finally, she said, blushing, 
though no one could see her: 

“You are right; I have committed a sin, and I 
repent of it.” 

After a long pause, she added humbly : 

You cannot imagine how greatly it disgusts me 
to witness D. Narciso s envy.” 

“Envy?” asked the priest in surprise, “ whom 
does he envy ? ” 

‘jYou, father, you,” the young woman replied 
firmly. 

“ No, daughter, no,” said Father Gil, utterly con- 
founded. “ I cannot excite the envy of anyone. I 
am a poor ecclesiastic ; a miserable sinner.” 

“ That may all be. I know what I am talking 
about.” 

Recovered from his perturbation, the priest now 
said with asperity : 

“ I beg that you will not repeat these things, nor 
even think them. I forbid it. I warn you that it 
is a question of two priests,” he added, after a pause, 
softening his voice. 

Obdulia did not reply. Mute, and with her heart 
oppressed by a strange pain, she walked on by the 


FAITH. 


96 

side of the clergyman. The latter addressed Osuna, 
without turning round. “ We shall feel the wind 
when we reach the Field, Seflor Osuna. 

When is it not windy on that accursed Field? ” 
replied the hunchback crossly. 

In fact, when they turned into it, a violent squall 
lashed them in the face, and came near turning their 
umbrellas inside out. The priest’s cassock and the 
young woman’s petticoats fluttered; they found it 
difficult to advance. 

At length they reached the great porch of Monte- 
sinos. They wiped their faces with their handker- 
chiefs, and repaired the disorder in their garments. 
Father Gil turned to give a curious and scrutinizing 
glance at the dark portal at whose summit the oil 
lamp still burned, 

“ Farewell, Seflor Osuna, may you rest well,” he 
said, offering his hand to the hunchback. Then he 
experienced a moment of indecision ; he was on the 
point of offering it to Obdulia ; but troubled by the 
intense and ecstatic gaze which the young woman 
riveted upon him, he raised his hat to her, and 
bowed gravely, saying : 

“Good-night, sefiorita.” 

He put up his umbrella again and hastily tra- 
versed the distance which separated him from the 
rectory. The eyes of Obdulia, who stood motion- 
less at the door, while her father called, followed 
him for a time. 

Before entering the rectory. Father Gil turned 
and also remained motionless for several instants. 
But his eyes did not seek the door into which Ob- 


FAITH. 


97 


dulia had just disappeared. They went higher, and 
embraced in one glance the spacious and gloomy 
fagade of the great ancestral mansion which, accus- 
tomed to the blows of the hurricane, slumbered 
grave and disdainful beneath the evil weather. He 
contemplated it long, attentively. His eyes burned 
with a fire of mystic delight. It was the gaze of an 
apostle : eager, tender, clement. Such must have 
been the expression reflected in Saint Peter’s eyes 
at the sight of Rome. 


IV. 


From that night forth, Father Gil thought of 
nothing else. The fever of apostleship inflamed 
him to such a degree that it left no corner empty in 
his brain for any other thought. Within him there 
arose a subdued struggle between the lively and 
ardent desire to ennoble his life by the conquest of 
an incarnate enemy of the Church, and mad, un- 
governable fear, though he knew not what inspired 
it. In his continual pacings to and fro in the room 
which he occupied at the rectory, while, breviary in 
hand, he recited the obligatory prayers, he halted 
frequently at the window, raised the corner of the 
curtain and directed a timid and anxious glance at 
the palace of Montesinos. There it stood, gloomy, 
impenetrable, hostile as a bastion constructed by 
impiety. The balconies were always closed. The 
mysterious man who inhabited it must hate the light 
of the sun as much as he hated the light of faith. 
The father raised his eyes to heaven, and returned 
thanks to God from the bottom of his heart, that 
he had always held him in His hand, and caused 
him to be born and to live in the luminous region 
of the holy Christian beliefs. 

In vain did he try to 'learn particulars as to the 
life and character of this wandering-sheep whom he 
longed to bring back to the told. The data which 

98 


FAITH. 


99 


were furnished to him were contradictory. While 
his sister and several other persons represented him 
as a perfect gentleman, a man good at bottom, led 
astray by mad company and the perusal of impious 
books ; others, who also asserted that they had known 
him from his infancy, depicted him as a perverse, 
evil-intentioned being, who always laughed at the 
misfortunes and weaknesses'of his neighbors, insolent 
and aggressive in words, since his feeble and sickly 
constitution forbade his being so in action. In this 
connection, they narrated several anecdotes of his 
childhood and youth, which confirrned this opinion. 
Others, finally, regarded him as an unhappy wight, 
a man whose heart had been filled with gall by dis- 
appointments in his literary career, and by profound 
domestic troubles. It was assumed that Montesinos 
had gonetp Madrid attached to letters and enamored 
of glory. Instead of these, he had found glacial 
indifference ; this, united to the catastrophe of his 
marriage, had obliged him to retire again to Pefias- 
cosa, “ crestfallen,’' as the grave biographers pictur- 
esquely express it. And they wound up by assert- 
ing that Montesinos'exhaled his bitterness and wrath 
by blaspheming in words, when the occasion pre- 
sented itself, and by publishing articles in the 
periodicals and reviews of the Masons. Father Gil 
did not know what to believe. He was inclined, 
nevertheless, to this last opinion, which reconciled, 
to a certain degree, the affection of his sister and 
certain friends with the evil repute which he enjoyed 
in the town. What did not fail to surprise him was 
that, while the ecclesiastics and the sticklers for 


lOO 


FAITH. 


tradition despised him, the few republicans and 
Masons in town showed him no esteem whatever. 
It was said that Montesinos ridiculed them with 
even more delight than he did the Catholics, and 
that he had always avoided all intercourse with 
them. 

All this information, which he collected here and 
there, concealing, of course, his project, was not 
calculated to dissuade him from it. The impene- 
trable mystery which enveloped the character of this 
man interested him more and terrified him more 
day by day. He knew how important it was to 
attract a lost soul into the bosom of the Church ; 
but when that soul belonged to a heretic, to its 
incarnate enemy, the act gained immeasurably in 
the eyes of God. As he turned the idea over, he 
several times conceived the project of approaching 
him directly, of talking to him and convincing him 
with reasoning and entreaties ; but he abandoned it 
even more promptly, fearing a catastrophe. It was 
not that it would mortify his self-love in the slightest 
degree; he was resolved to suffer for God’s sake 
every sort of martyrdom, much more of insult. 
What he did fear was, that he should be obliged to 
renounce so noble and glorious an undertaking. 
Little by little he became convinced that God him- 
self had entrusted it to him in a special manner, that 
this was the principal task which he had imposed 
on him, in sending him to Peftascosa. And con- 
vinced that the sublimity of the undertaking does 
not forbid one to adopt the most efficacious means 
for carrying it to a successful termination, he deter- 


PAITfl. 


ibi 

mined to communicate it to his godmother, Da. 
Eloisa, and to ask her aid. Great was the delight 
of that good woman on receiving this confidence. 
She applauded in all sincerity this project, which 
satisfied the most ardent desires of her heart, and 
she promised to do all that was humanly possible, 
that the beautiful dream might be realized. Long 
conversations took place between these two, in 
which they sought and weighed the means for 
accomplishing it ; finally, they agreed that the vicar 
should betake himself to the dwelling of D. Alvaro, 
commissioned by the latter’s sister to beg alms for 
the widows and orphans of several fishermen who 
had recently perished at sea. By taking advantage 
of this opportunity, he might sound him, become 
his friend, and gradually begin the work of his con- 
version. Da. Eloisa did not doubt the result, 
confident in the good disposition of her brother, 
and the virtue and learning of her godson. When 
she had talked with him occasionally on religion, 
Alvaro had replied with coarse invective against the 
ecclesiastics of Pefiascosa ; some of them he re- 
garded as idiots, others as vicious; he ridiculed all 
of them unmercifully. But what could he say 
against this lad, so good, so studious, of such pure 
and austere habits? 

He did not feel so confident. As the day of the 
visit approached, he grew more agitated and fearful. 
He prayed earnestly to God that he would give 
him strength and valor, and he prepared his argu- 
ments and even his phrases with exaggerated atten- 
tion. One morning, after having been for a long 


102 


FAITH. 


while engaged in prayer, he emerged from the 
rectory with a firm tread, traversed the short dis- 
tance which separated him from the palace of Mon- 
tesinos, entered its dark porch, and pulled the rusty 
bell-cord. The bell sounded at a distance, infirm and 
melancholic. The priest’s heart contracted, in spite 
of the courage with which prayer had inspired him. 
At the expiration of a long wait, an old servant, of 
sullen mien, made his appearance. At the sight of 
the vicar, his hard and piercing eyes expressed 
amazement. 

“ Is D. Alvaro at home ? ” 

He delayed his answer. 

“You can see that he is at home!” he replied at 
length. “ He never goes out.” 

“And can I see him?” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ Then inform him that the assistant rector of the 
parish desires to speak with him, on behalf of his 
sister. Da. Eloisa.” 

“ There is no necessity. Come with me,” the 
man replied abruptly. 

And, after closing and barricading the door with 
care, he went on in front. The vicar was surprised 
at the old serving-man’s air of authority, and the 
little heed which he paid to his master’s wishes in 
the matter of receiving or not receiving visitors. 
After traversing a vast, damp, badly paved court- 
yard, where the grass grew everywhere, surrounded 
by rough-hewn columns of stone spotted with moss, 
they ascended a staircase, also of rough-hewn stone, 
whose steps were worn with use. On the principal 


FAITH. 


103 


story they passed through a broad, open corridor, 
with a wooden floor, in such bad condition that it 
was necessary to walk with caution, in order not to 
place one’s foot in a hole. Extreme neglect was 
visible on all sides ; the dirty, peeled walls, the floors 
an inch deep with dust, the ceilings full of flaws ; 
it seemed not like an inhabited house, but like an 
ancient, solitary abbey. The grand ancestral man- 
sion of the Montesinos was rotting, falling to pieces, 
and without its owner undertaking the slightest 
repairs, or even noticing it. In the second story 
the servant conducted him through several halls, 
neglected and gloomy, opened at last a glass door, 
with dirty panes, and, after casting a glance round 
the interior, said : 

“ He is not here. He must have gone up to the 
library.” 

They retraced their steps. In the corridor they 
found a narrow door, and the servant entered it, 
followed by the priest, ascending a winding stair- 
case more dark and dirty than the rest of the house. 
When they reached the middle of it. Father Gil 
heard a dry cough above, which oppressed his heart 
once more with fear. The library was situated in 
O’lc of the two square tmvers which the house had 
on its sides. There was a small ante-chamber with- 
out any furniture, with a wooden door, unpainted, 
varnished with use, which the old man grasped, 
saying: 

“ Alvaro, here thou hast the Seftor Vicar, who de- 
sires to speak with thee.” 

The fright which the vicar bore within him did 


104 


FAITH. 


not prevent him being amazed at the strange con- 
fidence of the servant. A gentleman so wealthy, so 
noble, so mysterious, addressed as THOU by a ser- 
vant ! 

The library was as dirty and neglected as the rest 
of the house. It was a large, square room, with a 
vaulted roof, whose walls were concealed at intervals 
by rough shelves filled with books. Books were 
also heaped upon the floor without any order or 
care whatever. Some were bound in ancient boards, 
others were in very modern country covers, but all 
were equally the victims of the heedlessness of their 
owner, and the inclemency of the dust. The room 
was lighted by two leaden windows without cur- 
tains. A modern stove, whose pipe, upheld by 
copper wires, was thrust through a broken pane, 
warmed it. Near a decrepit table, covered with a 
rubber cloth all spattered with ink, in an ancient 
rawhide chair, sat a man whose face and dress cor- 
responded perfectly with the decorations of the room. 
He was small in body, large of head, with a pale 
face, delicate nose and lips, small eyes of an undefi- 
nable color, thin hair of a bright reddish hue, dimin- 
utive, fleshless hands. He wore a threadbare dress- 
ing-gown, a silk kerchief knotted about his neck, 
and his legs and feet were covered with a traveling 
mantle as worn and greasy as the gown. 

When the door opened he raised his head, and 
his greenish eyes, spotted with yellow like those of 
cats, riveted themselves upon the priest with a 
curiosity that was rendered insolent by the fact 
that he did not rise more than half-way from his 


FAITH. 


105 

seat, nor make the slightest inclination with his 
head. Father Gil had removed his hat, and bowed 
in confusion and vexation beneath this cold, search- 
ing gaze. The servant withdrew and closed the 
door. After inquiring about his health, the priest 
was slow in finding words. 

“You must have been informed, seflor, of the 
calamity which occurred a few days ago on the sea. 
Several families have been left without other shelter 
than the canopy of heaven and of charitable souls. 
Assured of the charity of this town, I have under- 
taken the task of begging from house to house. 
In fulfillment of this duty, and encouraged by your 
sister, I have taken the liberty to come and request 
an alms of you, for the poor widows and orphans 
and for the love of God.” 

The master of the house continued to stare at 
him for a few moments longer. Then he drew a key 
from his pocket, opened a large drawer in the table, 
took out several gold coins and, extending his hand, 
deposited them silently in that of the priest. “May 
God reward you, seflor,” said the latter. 

There was nothing left to do but to withdraw. 
D. Alvaro spoke not a word, nor did he invite him 
to take a seat. But to withdraw, without in any 
manner attempting to put his project into execu- 
tion, grieved him so deeply that he remained motion- 
less, in spite of the glance of dismissal which the 
other man kept fixed upon him. 

“Your generosity does not surprise me,” he said. 
“ Your sister has praised your good heart to me 
frequently, and I see that she was not mistaken.” 


io6 


FAITH. 


“ I presume that you have not heard eulogies on 
my heart from anyone but my sister. 

The voice of the heir of the Montesinos was 
singularly sweet and harmonious, and formed a 
strong contrast with his melancholy and inharmo- 
nious figure. Father Gil, who was rectitude personi- 
fied, paused for a moment. 

“ In truth, I have not heard eulogies on you 
from anyone but your sister,” he said at last can- 
didly. 

Montesinos did not appear to be displeased with 
this reply, but his eyes shone with more curiosity, 
and he once more examined the priest attentively 
from head to foot. 

“As my sister’s eulogies have no value whatever, 
you may draw the inference for yourself.” 

A slight smile dawned upon his lips as he uttered 
these words. 

“ In judging men I do not heed the opinions of 
men, but of God. Who knows what goodness or 
wickedness may lie hidden in the depths of the 
soul ? Up to the present time, the only thing that 
I know concerning you, sir, is that I have not called 
in vain at your door; that helpless orphans will 
bless your name and your heart.” 

* The gentleman’s eyes quitted the priest abruptly 
and expressed discomfort. 

“ The bestowal of a larger or smaller amount in 
charity has nothing to do with kindness of heart. 
We give of our superfluity. Are you sure that if I 
should miss the money which I have just given you, 
that I would still give it ? ” 


FAITH. 


107 

“ No, sefior; what I am sure of is, that you would 
do well to give it, even if you did miss it,” replied 
the priest gravely. 

The aristocrat gazed at him with still more inter- 
est, and reflected for a few moments. Then he 
shrugged his shoulders indifferently. 

“ Ps ! I do not know to what a degree that is cer- 
tain. Supposing that my money should serve to 
allow those orphans to live, it is no great favor that 
I am doing them. It is more: If we take into consid- 
eration that which inevitably awaits them in this life, 
we may feel sure that I have done them a terrible 
wrong. To live weighed down with toil, with suffer- 
ings, with anguish, and as a wind-up to the festival, 
a terrible death like that of their fathers yonder 
in the enraged waves. A fine future ! Those poor 
little creatures may well thank us for the felicity 
which we are preparing for them.” 

“ Every man has a destiny to accomplish on 
eaj^'th.” 

“ 1 know that destiny perfectly. To suffer the 
innumerable sorrows which nature and our fellow- 
men deal out to us.” 

“ And if we suffer them with patience, and com- 
mend ourselves to God, to receive the recompense 
reserved for the good.” 

Da. Alvaro made a grimace of disdain, and rising 
from his seat with signs of impatience, he offered 
his hand to the priest. 

“ Sefior Vicar, if our conversation is prolonged, 
it might turn into a dispute. It is always bad 
breeding to quarrel with the persons who come to 


io8 


FAITH. 


visit us, but in this case, when it is a question of a 
priest, it would be a real offense/' 

Say whatever occurs to you, sefior. It is my 
duty to proclaim the truth without fear of offenses.” 

The gentleman looked at him again, this time 
with benevolent compassion, and approaching him 
and laying his hand on his shoulder, he asked with 
a smile : ' 

Let us see, sir priest ; if you were God, would 
you make so perverse a world as this ? ” 

“ That question seems more like a mockery,” 
replied the priest, with marks of sadness and dis- 
pleasure. 

“ You see how you take offense ? What I mean 
to ask is, if, having it in your power to create a good 
world, peopled with happy, eternally happy beings, 
you would, out of caprice, create one filled with 
sorrows, with sadness, with bitterness ; if you would 
bestow life on a number of poor beings, bad and 
good, for the pleasure of recompensing the good 
and punishing the bad?” 

“ God has not created the world bad, but good. 
It was the first man who caused all sorrows by 
his disobedience.” 

“Ah, yes! The myth of the apple. I do not 
believe you capable of so ridiculous a caprice, Seftor 
Vicar. What was the object of reserving that apple, 
above all, when the capricious character of Eve and 
the weakness of Adam for her were known ? But 
granting that those two deserved punishment, what 
have we to do with their sin^P If a person were to 
injure you, would you be capable of avenging your- 


FAITH. 


109 


self on his sons and his grandsons ? I do not be- 
lieve it. You would begin by forgiving the offender, 
and if you did not forgive him, you would take good 
care to cause no harm to his children. On these 
grounds you see that I find myself obliged to con- 
sider you as a better person than God.” 

A flood of crimson rushed to the face of the 
priest. Astonishment, indignation, hampered his 
tongue. 

“ This is nothing more than scoffing unworthily 
at the holiest of things,” he ejaculated at length. 
“ I am surprised that you, who have received a Chris- 
tian education, should have reached such an extreme 
degree of impiety.” 

A sarcastic smile was outlined on the gaunt coun- 
tenance of the noble gentleman. 

“ I did, in fact, receive a Christian education ; at 
least as Christianity is understood down to the pres- 
ent time. You see, Seftor Vicar, I had a father who 
was like God. For the lightest fault, the outcome 
of my inexperience, of my disposition, of my age, 
he imposed upon me a barbarous, a cruel chastise- 
ment. If I fell asleep during the recital of the 
rosary, blows ; if a blot fell upon my written page, 
blows; if I ran through the house, blows ; if I soiled 
my clothing, blows — always blows ! And he never 
even took the trouble to administer them with his 
own hand ; he entrusted the execution to Ramiro, the 
servant who conducted you hither, who dealt them 
out to me in a highly Christian manner, until the 
blood flowed. But still my father was much better 
than God in this respect ; for Ramiro’s blows lasted 


no 


FAITH. 


only for a time, while those which the devils are to 
give us will last to all eternity, as you priests 
assert.” 

The smile which had strayed about his lips van- 
ished. He remained silent fora while; he was 
deeply centered in himself. His eyes, fixed on the 
floor, dilated with an expression of terror. His 
whole childhood passed in rapid and lugubrious 
vision before him. His father, tall, thin, with a 
huge, aquiline nose, curved and cutting as that of an 
eagle. He had never seen him smile. He had 
passed half of his life in church, where he let him- 
self fall on his knees with a heavy thud, which made 
his son quiver (he sometimes thought that his 
father’s knees must be made of stone or iron). He 
never addressed him except to reprove him, or to 
exact the fulfillment of some task. He had no 
friends, with the exception of two or three ecclesi- 
astics, with whom he heard him execrate liberalism 
and modern impiety. He saw himself, poor child, 
infirm and sickly, passing two or three hours on his 
knees in the church, without ever enjoying the 
pleasure of running about in the open air like the 
children of the miserable fishermen, without having 
a companion, to whom he might communicate his 
innocent thoughts. One day was exactly like an- 
other. The sky was always leaden. The sea beat- 
ing sadly against the rocks. The wind blowing in 
violent gusts against the panes. And the house 
silent, gloomy, dirty; resounding from time to time 
with the slow, measured footsteps of his father. He 
beheld himself later on, in Lancia, studying the 


FAITH. 


Ill 


second course of instruction, lodging in the house 
of a priest of the same temperament and manners 
as his father. His companions despised him because 
of his weakness, his lack of dexterity ; the profes- 
sors regarded him with suspicion, on account of his 
reserved and melancholy character. And during 
vacations, there was the return to the gloomy and 
detestable palace, to the austere rule, to the eternal 
prayers. In spite of his ardent desire to adopt a 
profession, he was not permitted to do so. His 
father considered it derogatory to the heir of the 
house of Montesinos to mark out a career ; he called 
lawyers shysters, engineers stone-cutters, and pro- 
fessors petty pedagogues. The army pleased him, 
but his ideas, which clung to the old tradition of gov- 
ernment, prevented him sending his son to serve a 
liberal government. Not being able to serve his king 
with arms, the life of a noble should consist in rising 
early to hear mass, casting a glance over his affairs, 
chatting a while with the steward, playing ombre 
with the priests, taking a walk with them, afterward, 
reciting the rosary, confessing in detail, and con- 
stantly setting an example of virtue and religious- 
ness to plebians, without ever coming in contact 
with them. But in spite of the great respect which 
he showed toward the priests and of kissing their 
hands in public, Alvaro , recalled one detail, which 
had attracted his attention greatly : At the dinner 
hour the lackeys always served the master and his 
son before they served the chaplain of the house. 
The pride of nobility beat much more strongly in 
the heart of his father than did his religious senti- 


112 


FAITH, 


ment ; but he understood how to ally them so well, 
that in the depths of his consciousness he had ar- 
rived at the belief that religious feeling was a quality 
peculiar to the aristocracy, and that by it more than 
by any other they^were to be distinguished from the 
vulgar populace. 

He beheld himself in Pefiascosa, leading the life 
of an unoccupied nobleman, subjected like a child 
ten years of age to the despotic authority of his 
father. His imaginative, dreamy spirit could not 
endure this inaction. He began to read novels by 
stealth, which were furnished him by a woman who 
kept a tobacco and snuff shop on the street of the 
Quadrant. Then he went upstairs to the librar}^ 
where a priest, the brother of his grandfather, had 
left a great store of books, and began to devour 
them. He read Plato, Descartes, Saint Thomas, 
F^n^lon, etc. 

He became learned. But when the light of science 
entered his mind, doubt slipped in also ; what cruel 
torments it caused him in his sad, monotonous life; 
religion alone, the thought of God, the promise of 
immortality, of another world more just and more 
beautiful, had sweetened a little the bitterness of 
the hours. And lo ! all of a sudden he distrusted 
this sweet promise, he doubted all the truths of re- 
ligion, even to the existence of God. In the begin- 
ning he went about distrustfully, gloomily, fearing 
lest his father should discover in his eyes his abom- 
inable thoughts. Afterward, cruelly tormented, 
crushed by them, craving a remedy for his malady, a 
hand which should sustain him before he fell into the 


FAn'B. 


II3 

abyss of perdition, he one day summoned the cour- 
age to throw himself on his knees before his father 
and confess them. The old aristocrat was thunder- 
struck, and, in order to cure his son’s madness (that 
was what he called it), he could^devise no other 
remedy than to counsel him to penance, fasts, morti- 
fications of the flesh of every sort. In his opinion, 
these doubts arose from nothing but from the rebel- 
ions of the flesh, which must be combated with 
humility and scourging. 

He soon overleaped the barrier of doubt, and fell 
into the field of unbelief. From that time forth, no 
vacillation; he became more and more convinced 
every day that there was nothing to hope for beyond 
this world. His father died, and he confessed to 
himself with remorse that he did not regret it. 
He breathed with longing and delight the air of 
liberty. There was a moment when life appeared 
to him less horrible ; the world wore a sweet smile 
for him. It was when, with well-filled pockets, he 
betook himself to Madrid. Science, at first, offered 
him consolation and occupation. With avidity did 
he acquaint himself with the latest ideas in philos- 
ophy, in history, in the natural sciences ; he asso- 
ciated, he discussed with the most eminent men in 
Spain. And he had the satisfaction of observing, 
that yonder, in his isolation of Pefiascosa, meditat- 
ing among his ancient books, he had arrived at the 
same results as the modern philosophers. Then 
came love; a sweet and intoxicating dream, a divine 
and penetrating music, which held him suspended, 
for a time, above the miseries of earth, which recon- 


FAITH. 


II4 

ciled him with life and awakened in his heart infinite 
hope, the illusion of immortal bliss. The fall from 
that luminous, enchanting, smiling world was very 
cruel: one of the blackest pages registered in the 
history of men, which contains so many black 
pages. 

“ For the rest,” he said, emerging from his painful 
reverie, and passing his skeleton hand across his 
brow, “ I have taken the things which you believe 
in seriously for a sufficiently long space of time. 
It cost me much pain, many hours of sleeplessness, 
many tears to part from them. Allow me to laugh 
a little now, in exchange for those tears.” 

“So that,” said the priest, with badly repressed- 
agitation, “ entirely forgetful of the beliefs which 
suckled. you, the holy religion of your fathers, you 
declare yourself an enemy of God?” 

“ Yes, senor, an enemy of God and of men. That 
is to say, it cannot be of God, unfortunately, since 
he does not exist. If he did exist, judging from his 
works, he would be a very wicked God. As I can- 
not be the enemy of God, I am the enemy of men, 
not to do them harm, but to flee from them, as one 
flees from ferocious wild beasts. Ever since I was 
born, they have made me endure many sufferings. 
Nevertheless, I have never tried to avenge myself 
on them, because I know very well that they are 
wicked because Nature or destiny has created 
them so ; they do harm as the wild beasts do it, 
through the egotism which roars within every ani- 
mate being. This world is organized for all beings 
to devour each other. That which goes on with the 


FAITH. 


fishes goes on with the men ; only we do not open 
our mouths, and we do not swallow our victim at a 
gulp, which is, after all, an advantage for him, but 
we devour him in small mouthfuls, tearing away 
his flesh until we reduce him to a skeleton. Do 
not you see me.?” he added, with a ferocious 
smile, pointing to his face. “ The fish who has 
eaten me understood his business. He has left 
nothing of me but my bones.” 

Father Gil, more and more astounded, ventured 
to inquire : 

“And you do not think that there exists on the 
earth a single honest man, a single virtuous 
woman ? ” 

“Yes, there are some ; but they are exceptional 
products of nature ; to express it more accurately, 
they are aberrations of an organism created for evil. 
Good men suffer the consequences of every aber- 
ration ; they cannot subsist. All animals are born 
with means of defense for the struggle in the com- 
bat of life ; some have teeth, others have claws, 
others have horns, others have wings with which to 
fly away ; the good man is the only animal who is 
lacking in means of defense. Not being fitted for 
fighting, he is irrevocably destined to perish. The 
only consolation that a good man can have is, that 
his tormentors are not happy either. He is a poor 
fly, caught in the immense spider’s web fabricated 
by scoundrels who compose the majority of the 
human race. Life is a huge fraud for all, for the 
good and for the bad. Within the universe there 
lurks an astute, wicked force, which impels us, which 


FAITH. 


1 16 

directs us toward a goal unknown to us, and with 
which we have no concern. It needs us for this 
mysterious object, and it obliges us to reproduce 
ourselves. It matters not to it that we are un- 
happy. For it, the individual is nothing, the species 
is everything. It works like the owner of a stock 
breeding establishment, who, before he kills a horse 
that is no longer of any use to him, forces him to 
leave a foal behind him. Preoccupied solely with 
perpetuity, in order that instruments may never be 
lacking, it deceives us with the lure of pleasure, of 
ambition, or of pride. You, yourself, who are not 
working from any one of these motives, are equally 
an instrument of the race. By occupying yourself 
with the fate of these poor orphans, by seeking 
zealously the means for their livelihood, you are 
unconsciously obeying the orders of that evil force. 
When the attraction of pleasure does not suffice for 
the preservation of life, it appeals to the sentiment 
of compassion which it has placed within us.” 

Father Gil, who had listened, petj'ified, in a 
stupor, at hearing such a series of impious remarks, 
felt a quiver of horror at hearing such a monstrous 
interpretation of the sentiment of charity. This 
quiver was followed by a lively irritation. It re- 
quired a great exertion of his will not to break out 
into insults against the blasphemer. 

“All that is very well,” he said, controlling him- 
self and smiling in a forced way, “ but you will 
excuse me if I ask you a question. In this very 
afflicting pessimism which you profess, in the 
deplorable idea which you have formed of the 


FAITH. 


117 

world of men, in this very brutal atheism itself 
(pardon me the phrase) which you are so set upon 
exhibiting, are you quite sure that everything de- 
pends on cold, serene reason? Have not your 
individual sorrows, the unhappy events of your own 
life, had some influence?” 

The feline eyes of the nobleman blazed with 
wrath; he had been wounded to the quick. 

‘“Ah! that eternal song! ” he exclaimed impetu- 
ously. “ When people cannot attack a theory, 
they scrutinize the motives of the person who main- 
tains it. What do you mean to prove by that? 
Let us assume that the world is a paradise, that all 
men except myself are happy, and that my pessi- 
mism depends wholly upon my own misfortunes. 
Shall I, for that reason, cease to affirm and declare 
the evil which has fallen to my lot? Shall not I, a 
wretched creature, have a right to describe God (in 
case there is one) as wicked, since, though he was 
able to make me happy, like the rest, he has made 
me unhappy? Everyman on earth who suffers can 
demand of God, as Job did, ‘When did noth- 
ingness ask existence of Thee.’ As for the rest,” 
he added, adopting a depreciatory, insulting tone, 
“ since you knew from the time you entered these 
doors to what you were coming, I do not wish 
to discuss with you, for I should become angry. 
I am persuaded that the religion in which you 
believe is nothing more than a combination of 
hypotheses, innocent as all those of the other 
religions invented by the misery and cowardice 
of men, who cannot resign themselves to die 


ii8 


FAITH. 


outright, like the other animated beings, as ex- 
perience irrefutably teaches us, who cannot con- 
vince themselves that they were born to sorrow. 
And I do not believe this through caprice, but 
after having studied and meditated upon the sub- 
ject extensively : after having followed carefully, 
step by step, the history of the most, important 
religions. If there were any choice among 
them, it certainly would not be Christianity, which 
is one of the most melancholy and senseless. That 
has happened to me which happened with Goethe : 
the cross gives me spasms in my nerves. Neither 
Saint Thomas, nor Saint Augustine, nor Saint 
Pension, nor Pascal, has convinced me. Conse- 
quently, no one of you will convince me. You 
possess no more respectability in my eyes than that 
which your character and deeds lend you. I laugh 
your science, and that of all your colleagues, bishops 
and archbishops, to scorn.” 

His eyes flashed proudly, as he gazed haughtily 
down upon him ; but these eyes suddenly softened at 
the sight of a tear trembling in those of Father Gil. 

“ Forgive me, Seflor Vicar,” he made haste to say, 
approaching him, “ if I have offended you; I have a 
bad disposition — I am easily irritated.” 

“ Farewell, senor ; farewell,” replied Father Gil, 
pressing the hand which Montesinos offered him. 
“ You have not offended me ; it is God whom ” 

“ Then I am content, for that is of no conse- 
quence,” he replied with a smile. “ Farewell for the 
present. You know that you have here a friend and 
a house at your service.” 


V. 


He came out of that accursed house in an inde- 
scribable state of confusion and sadness. He did 
not wish to go to the house of Da. Eloisa, who was 
awaiting him with impatience. When he saw her 
later he explained the unfortunate interview in a 
few curt words. 

During several days he made efforts to banish 
from his mind that disagreeable interview, and even 
the image of the blasphemer. Disconcerted, crushed 
by so brutal a reception, he did not imagine that 
there could be any means of combating that raging 
devil, gorged with wrath and impiety. But the lat- 
ter’s words rang day and night in his ears, pursued 
him, pained him like cruel lashes. He was ac- 
quainted with several arguments of the heretics; 
those which were contained in the books of the- 
ology, and which the author, on the authority of the 
Holy Fathers, always refuted victoriously. He 
knew of the existence of rationalists, but his infor- 
mation was vague and deficient. He had never 
seen atheism expressed in so cynical a manner. He 
had not thought that there was really anyone who 
was not really convinced that God did not exist. 

Nevertheless, when the impression was dispelled, 
after the lapse of a certain time, he could not but 
think that he had been very quickly crushed. Too 

119 


120 


FAITH. 


well he knew that the sheep would not yield itself 
up for good at first sight ; that he was going to en- 
counter a well-informed, erudite man, who could 
not be attracted by a brace of commonplaces. 
Then, why be cast down so promptly ? Why give 
up as conquered without fighting? Father Gil con- 
fessed to himself, with his customary and sincere 
modesty, that he was not prepared for this combat. 
Beneath the ironical and cynical phrases of the heir 
of Montesinos, he divined a long study of the ma- 
terials, a well meditated and complete system. In 
order to combat this system, and the arguments 
which impiety might bring forward, it was necessary 
to know them in advance, to discuss and ponder 
them previously in his own mind, in order that im- 
mediately on their appearance in the mouth of the 
unbeliever, he might be able to destroy thenn, reduce 
them to dust. For this reason he did not dare to 
undertake again this coveted conversion. 

But the more difficult it was for him, the more 
obstacles he encountered in his path, the more 
lively was his desire to accomplish it. He had 
observed, in the lives of the saints, that they never 
acknowledged themselves conquered in the contest 
with sin. Enormous, impossible as the enterprise 
might be, they attacked it again and again with 
increasing ardor, trusting solely to the aid of God. 
He must do the same. If he lacked strength, God 
would lend him strength. He must toil unweariedly, 
until he had brought about the return of the prodi- 
gal son, until he had destroyed this focus of im- 
piety, which might infect the healthy hearts of 


FAITH. 


121 


Peflascosa, until he had removed this stumbling 
block. 

He decided in his own mind to return to the 
charge. But this time he would go better prepared ; 
he would be perfectly posted on all the arguments 
of the heretics, and be prepared to reply to them. 
He communicated his project of conversion to his 
master, the rector of the seminary at Lancia, and 
entreated him to ask the bishop for permission to 
read forbidden books. The rector did not delay 
long in forwarding it, but in the letter which accom- 
panied it he did not appear very enthusiastic over 
his disciple’s undertaking. The ascetic priest en- 
joyed more perfecting believing souls than enticing 
those which were definitely in the claws of sin. 

The first thing that Father Gil chanced to read 
was the “Life of Jesus,” very popular at that time 
among the godless, and which was always mentioned 
with disdain, mingled with terror, in the seminary. 
He read it with profound sadness and grief. The 
heretic who had written it regarded our Lord Jesus 
Christ as a man. He lavished upon him a thousand 
derisive eulogies, displayed an exaggerated admira- 
tion for him, but this was in order to demonstrate 
the better his exclusively human condition, and dis- 
charge with more effect the venom of impiety. 
The book was crammed with fabulous stories. 
“Christianity,” it said, “is an historical phenom- 
enon, and as such it should be studied in a historical 
manner.” This was, evidently,, absurd, since Chris- 
tianity signifies the redemption of the human race 
by the Son of God; it is the revelation of divine 


122 


FAITH. 


truth. The author demands that the narrations of 
the Gospels shall be examined in conformity with 
the same principles with which any other tradition 
is judged, that results shall not be imposed before- 
hand on criticism, and that criticism shall be left 
free from preconceived hypotheses. This was an- 
other absurdity, because, how can we apply to faith, 
to the word of God, the same principles as to the 
deeds and words of men? In this manner he pro- 
ceeded to answer the arguments of the rationalistic 
author one by one, and to demolish them. 

Busied with this internal discussion, and eager to 
make it external, as is the case with everything which 
fills and embraces our spirit, he ventured to pay an- 
other visit to the head of the house of Montesinos. 
The latter received him very well, with exquisite 
amiability, as though his conscience was stung with 
remorse for his past rudeness. They talked of in- 
different matters. Montesinos took occasion to let 
him know that he had very good information as to 
his character, that he was acquainted with the vir- 
tues which adorned it. Father Gil flushed under 
these praises, and replied, with a melancholy smile, 
that what he desired at that moment was to have a 
great deal of talent, and much knowledge, in order 
that he might convince him of the truth of revela- 
tion. 

“Of what revelation?” the nobleman asked him, 
smiling also kindly. 

“Of what revelation?” 

“Yes, of what revelation? for there are several ; 
the Christians, the Buddhists, the Mohammedans, 


FAITH. 


123 


the Jews, all believe that their religion has been 
revealed by God.” 

“ I speak of the only true one, of the revelation 
of our Lord Jesus Christ.” 

“ And what are your grounds for believing that 
this is the true one, and that the others are false ? ” 

“The ground that the others are full of mon- 
strous, irrational things,” replied the priest imperi- 
ously, “the ground that the religion of the Crucified 
One satisfies all the aspirations of our feeling and 
our reason.” 

“ Take care, Seftor Vicar! ” exclaimed the noble- 
man, with a merry laugh, “ you are making revealed 
truth depend upon the assertion of the reason ; you 
are proclaiming the supremacy of the reason, which 
is a heretical proposition ” 

“ What ? What ? ” cried the priest, stupefied. 

But Montesinos changed the subject of conversa- 
tion abruptly. He dared not insist. 

It cost him a great effort to swallow this pill. For 
several days he thought of hardly anything else. 
The idea that, without perceiving it, he might fall 
into some error condemned by the Church, dis- 
turbed him greatly. Indubitably, reading heretical 
books, thinking too much about the foundations of 
religion, was like playing with fire. He would do 
better to let the dice alone, and allow the devil to 
carry off Montesinos. All the saints who have lived 
in the world, and the divine ordinances which com- 
mand us to love our neighbor as ourselves, cried out 
against this resolution. On the other hand, he had 
a foreboding that his inward agitation was not going 


124 


FAITH. 


to cease. The ideas in the “ Life of Jesus” and those 
which he had heard from MontesinOs, seethed con- 
fusedly in his brain; and did not immediately calm 
down in consequence of an exertion of his will. 
Why should he not penetrate deeply into the exam- 
ination of the origins of the Christian religion ? 
Why should not he know, in its smallest details, the 
data of discussion, in order to confound, to pulverize 
any rationalist who should present himself, however 
learned he might be ? There was no danger whatever 
in this. A little knowledge estranges from God ; 
much knowledge brings one closer. 

He devoted himself with ardor, with frenzy, we 
may say, to study. Montesinos, with whom he began 
to be intimate, placed his library at his service. 
He read without cessation, with profound attention, 
the most prominent writings concerning critical in- 
vestigations of the New Testament, and the history 
of the dogmas. He drank deep draughts of the 
poison of heresy without perceiving its taste, with 
the hope that when he had drained the cup he 
would be perfectly tranquil, assured forever of the 
senselessness and the wickedness contained in every- 
thing which was opposed to the Church of Christ. 
But, alas! this was not the way it turned out. At 
the expiration of a few months doubt reared its 
fetid head in his afflicted spirit. For many days he 
would not confess it to himself, striving to deceive 
himself, and turning away his eyes that he might 
not see it. Nevertheless, the moment came when 
this was no longer possible. The infamous thing 
had gone on twining itself cautiously into his soul, 


FAITH. 


125 


and had insensibly taken complete possession of it. 
What stupor! What a horrible affliction 1 

The Bible is the word of God. That which God 
prompts is the infallible truth. In the Bible there 
cannot exist false or contradictory narratives. This 
•is what the priest repeated to himself every instant, 
even aloud when he found himself alone. 

If the Scripture is not of Divine origin, can it be 
explained that Isaiah could prophesy that Jesus 
should be born of a virgin, that it would take place 
in Bethlehem ? How could the same Isaiah, a cen- 
tury and a half before Cyrus, point him out as the 
liberator of the Jews? How could Daniel, under 
the reign of Nebuchadnezzar, prophesy the birth of 
Alexander the Great, and many particulars of his 
history ? 

To whom did Father Gil propound these bruise- 
producing questions with such violence when he was 
alone? To an invisible heresiarch, who answered 
him, hissing like a serpent: “The different books 
of the Bible are the work of men, like all the others 
to which a divine origin is attributed : the Koran, the 
Vedas, etcetera. They are compilations of writings 
of different sorts and epochs. The books attributed 
to Moses and to Samuel are much later compila- 
tions, into which fragments of different epochs have 
been introduced. The same thing has come to pass 
with the books of the New Testament. Isaiah had 
no thought of Jesus, in his son of a virgin. The 
last third of the prophecies of Isaiah proceed from 
a contemporary of Cyrus, and the whole book of 
Daniel from a contemporary of Antiochus, for whom 


126 


FAITH. 


he could very well prophesy that which had already 
taken place.” 

Father Gil covered his eyes and tore his hair, 
horrified at this sacrilegious dispute. He, a minister 
of the Most High, seeking objections and contra- 
dictions to the words of the Holy Spirit ! He de-* 
served that the earth should yawn suddenly and 
swallow him. Those infamous books that the 
heretic Montesinos had lent him were to blame. 
Carried away by holy indignation against them, 
without pausing to consider that they did not belong 
to him, he collected them all one day, made a pile 
of them in the courtyard, and set fire to them. D. 
Miguel, who was very far from suspecting what was 
going on in the mind of his assistant, applauded the 
bonfire from the balcony with loud laughter. He 
was more tranquil when he no longer had in the 
house these wicked enemies of his salvation. He 
completely abandoned reading and devoted himself 
to the duties of the confessional, which he had, in 
some measure, neglected. And proceeding with 
his doubts of historical criticism as the saints of old 
proceeded with the temptations of flesh, he began 
to mortify himself pitilessly. He, who up to that 
time had shown himself weak and cowardly in the 
path of perfection, now pursued it intrepidly, eager 
to pay with the pains of the body the scandalous rebel- 
lion of his mind. He was much comforted and aided 
at this critical moment by the example of the pious 
daughter of Osuna. Every day he discovered in the 
pure soul of his penitent fresh treasures of goodness 
and Christian perfection. He believed that he 


FAITH, 


127 


stood in the presence of one of the elect of the 
Lord, consecrated by the Church and adored by the 
faithful of all Christianity. Santa Teresa, Santa 
Isabel, Santa Catalina, Santa Eulalia, the blessed 
Margarita de Alacoque. The same peculiarities 
which he had read in the lives of these saints he now 
observed in his spiritual daughter ; the same thirst 
for penances, the same scruples and fears, the same 
humility, the same divine favors. 

For Obdulia, filled with shame, as though she ac- 
cused herself of a grave sin, trembling with emotion, 
had confessed to him that, from time to time, she 
suffered from swoons when she was at prayer, fell 
suddenly to the earth, and, during the brief mo- 
ments when she lay insensible, she sometimes be- 
held Jesus in the clouds, surrounded by angels; 
she heard divine music, intoxicating music. At 
other times she noticed a tall, strong, handsome 
angel, with two immense, transparent wings, who 
drew near to her and laid his hand gently on her 
head, saying : “ Persevere.” At other times, and 
they were most frequent, she merely perceived a 
great light, which bathed her completely in pleas- 
ure, without seeing anyone ; but she felt that she 
was accompanied, as though all the saints of 
heaven, male and female, were hovering invisibly 
around her. In the beginning, like a prudent con- 
fessor, he feigned to attach no importance to these 
visions ; she might very well be mistaken ; the 
devil very often invents such scenes to deceive in- 
cautious souls, by way of instilling into them the 
poison of vanity and pride. Obdulia persisted. 


128 


FAITH, 


nevertheless. Her swoons grew constantly more 
frequent and prolonged, her visions more intense. 
She asserted, with barely repressed fire, that she 
saw Jesus, that she saw the angel. Father Gil 
still doubted, or feigned doubt, making a gesture 
of disdain every time that the young woman re- 
lated, with trembling lips, these favors of Heaven. 
There was but one sign by which it might be 
known whether they came directly from God ; 
when the soul has been brought, through them, 
to such a pitch of perfection, that the slightest, 
most venial sin causes as much grief and as many 
tears as the most infamous and mortal. But there 
still existed in her the rebellions of the flesh; self- 
love still showed itself. He could not regard these 
hallucinations as divine. Obdulia felt great dis- 
comfiture at this severe and reserved attitude. 

But little by little the seal which the priest re- 
quired to recognize the celestial origin of her 
visions began to appear. The spirit of the young 
woman was purified of all impurities. Her devo- 
tion to religious practices, especially to the sacred 
bread of the Eucharist, grew greater day by day. 
She melted, she was poured out in divine love, fre- 
quently breaking out into exclamations of enthusi- 
asm, into incoherent phrases, as though she were mad. 
And withal, her humility and submissiveness* were 
so perfect that a glance from her confessor sufficed 
to abash her, to make her tremble and beg forgive- 
ness for the most innocent acts. At last there was 
nothing left for him to do but to bow before the 
will of God and confess his presence. He did so 


FAITH. 


129 


with great pleasure. After his sacrilegious doubts 
he was eager to see the proofs of Omnipotence and 
infinite and goodness ; he desired to submerge him- 
self in the ocean of the inexplicable, of the super- 
j^atural, to escape that minute and wicked criticism 
which withers up everything. He considered him- 
self happy, free from it, in having beside him so 
clear an example of the miraculous power of God. 
He believed that God was giving him warning in 
this manner, in order that he might not fall into 
temptation again, that he had sent him a beacon to 
light up the dark places of his soul. He constantly 
had in mind what had happened with Father Gra- 
cian, whom Santa Teresa had helped so greatly in 
the path of virtue by her immaculate conscience. 
And in the bottom of his heart th^e sprang up a 
great respect, equal to an immense gratitude, 
toward this pious woman, who had released him 
from the clutches of the demon. He listened atten- 
tively to the prolix narrative of her visions, and, 
armed with holy emulation, he undertook anew, 
with more ardor, if not more faith, the path of mor- 
tifications which he had abandoned while he groaned 
in the slavery of doubt. 

Obdulia, who with grief had seen him absent- 
minded during the last few months, felt a great joy 
at finding him once more attentive, solicitious, lis- 
tening to her for hours as she unbosomed herself of 
the petty preoccupations of her spirit without wax- 
ing impatient. It was a blissful return to the sweet 
confidence, to the mystic conferences, to the famil- 
iarities of the past. And as usually happens in 


130 


FAITH, 


similar cases, the bond between them was drawn 
closer; that is to say, confidence and affection were 
greater. After a short time he began to consult his 
penitent, not only upon pious subjects, but also on 
domestic matters ; she became his spiritual and tem- 
poral adviser. The devout young woman penetrated 
all his thoughts, sometimes even before they had 
formulated themselves with precision in his brain. 

“ Father, you are in a bad humor to-day ; that is 
because you could not say mass at the altar of the 
Conception as on other occasions. You have black 
circles under your eyes. It is evident that you have 
passed the whole night in prayer. I know why you 
said mass later on Sunday ; you hoped that Da. 
Eloisa would come. That band presses your neck 
too tightly. is very uncomfortable for you. 
Would you like to have me put it in order?” 

Their lives continued insensibly to merge together. 
Not only did they have a little chat nearly every day 
in the confessional, but in the afternoon they met in 
the church at the rosary, and in the evening, fre- 
quently, at Da. Eloisa’s house. Moreover, from 
time to time, the young woman went to the rectory 
to consult him about some pious matter, such as a 
novena, a meeting of the society, etcetera, although 
it always cost her an effort because she was very 
much afraid of D. Miguel. She had taken it into 
her head that the latter regarded her with an un- 
favorable eye, that he despised hen And perhaps 
she had reason to think so. 

This confidence sinned by its excess, on occasion. 
At least, so thought Father Gil. Obdulia allowed 


FAITH. 


131 

herself, from time to time, familiarities which 
shocked him, and, on occasion, disturbed for a mo- 
ment the limpidity of his conscience. One day she 
spoke to him of her economical exigencies. Her 
father gave her but little money for the expenses of 
the household, and, as she had the vice of charity, 
of giving alms at haphazard, she had contracted 
debts which mortified her. There was one shop- 
woman in particular to whom she owed twenty 
duros, who annoyed her every hour, and threatened 
her to tell her papa. Could not he procure that 
sum for her, for a short time? The priest did not 
possess the money either, but he borrowed it from 
his godmother, and handed it over, flushing crimson. 
She accepted it without any shame whatever, as the 
most natural thing in the world. On another day 
she brought to the church a package of letters from 
the lover she had had, that he might read them. 

Later on she begged from him the scapular which 
he wore on his neck, insisted so strongly, and 
adduced such pretexts, that she ended by obtaining 
it. On the following day she confessed to him, with 
a smile, that it had not been for the purpose of plac- 
ing upon a friend who had just died, but to wear on 
her own breast. These things wounded and vaguely 
troubled the young priest. The verbal jests which 
the pious woman sometimes permitted herself, also 
transgressed, at times, the bounds of propriety. 
One day she said to him suddenly : 

“Do you know what I am thinking of, father? 
That the angel who often comes and lays his hand 
on my head has eyes very much like yours.” 


132 


FAITH. 


And she broke into a laugh as she said it. The 
priest laughed also, and flushed. Then he instantly 
became serious and displeased. 

A strange event which scandalized the town in- 
tervened, in an indirect manner, to render their rela- 
tions closer, and to disturb Father Gil. One night 
he was awakened in alarm, by the sound of a detona- 
tion in the house. He rose with a bound, and ran 
to the room of D. Miguel, whence he fancied that 
the sound had proceeded. On arriving there he 
paused in amazement, petrified with terror before the 
scene which presented itself to his vision. In the 
middle of the room a man was wallowing in a pool 
of blood, while D. Miguel, standing on his bed, was 
brandishing a pistol triumphantly, and shouting with 
a ferocious smile : ‘‘ One is fallen ! One is fallen ! ” 
The dying flame of a candle, which lay on the floor, 
lighted up this weird scene. 

The state of the case was this : While the rector 
was in bed, a man had made his way into his sleep- 
ing room, had awakened him, and had ordered him 
to hand over his money. D. Miguel, without mov- 
ing, thrust his hand into his waistcoat, drew out 
the key and threw it into the middle of the room. 
Then, while the thief was picking it up, he had 
pulled one of his pistols from under his mattress, 
and had discharged it at him, leaving him out- 
stretched. The bullet had penetrated his loins. 
The vicar, overcoming his alarm, hastened to render 
him spiritual succor. Three hours later he expired. 

This affair was much commented upon, and in 
very different manners, in the town. Some people 


FAITH. 


^33 


approved the conduct of the rector. He had a 
right to defend himself from a highwayman, for God 
knows what the man would have done after he had 
robbed him. Others, and they were in the majority, 
censured him severely. A priest cannot behave 
like other men in such a case. He is a minister of 
Jesus Christ and must always proceed with charity, 
even in a matter of legitimate defense. Father Gil 
was deeply indignant, although he maintained silence. 
A priest should not only allow himself to be robbed, 
but murdered rather than to stain his hands with 
blood. Our Lord inculcated this, when Saint 
Peter cut off the ear of the soldier who had come to 
take him. Obdulia conjectured accurately the sen- 
timents which agitated him, and advised him to 
leave the rectory and establish himself in another 
house. 

“ You can no longer live here after what has 
passed, father. The shock which you have undergone 
has been very great, and the impression must be re- 
newed every day, at the sight of the place.” 

This was not precisely what she meant to say, but 
that a really Christian and virtuous man must suffer 
much through living with a person who had just in- 
flicted a violent death upon a fellow-creature. .But 
if she did not say it in words, the graveness and 
sadness of her demeanor allowed it to be divined. 
For a long time P'ather Gil had desired precisely 
this. The company of the rector was annoying to 
him, as we already know. Now, since the assassina- 
tion (that was the way his conscience described it), 
it had become unendurable to him. D. Miguel had 


134 


FAITH. 


incurred the censure of the Church, his license to 
hold confession and to say mass was revoked: a 
considerable time must elapse before he could be 
rehabilitated. Taking advantage of these moments 
of weakness in the terrible priest, with the aid of his 
godmother, he hired a tiny house not very far from 
the church, and removed to it. An old servant 
woman of Da. Eloisa’s came to wait on him and 
serve as his housekeeper. • 

Being freed from her fear of the rector, Obdulia 
now began to frequent the vicar’s new house, and 
to exercise a high degree of vigilance in it. She 
made a thorough inspection of his underlinen, of 
the state of his cassocks, of the food which most 
pleased the father, of the details of his bed. Some- 
times she came to help in the ironing, or carried off 
to her own house, to iron, some of the more delicate 
articles, such as the albs, and rochets ; she darned 
the torn socks and took out the sleeves of the cas- 
socks, etc. These were the ordinary tasks. But she 
also busied herself with finer bits of work, in em- 
broidering for him an amice, or corporals, or some 
other article of sacerdotal vestment. Dofta Josefa, 
the housekeeper, did not accept this protectorate 
with a good grace ; but as she had not yet struck 
deep roots in the house, and as she observed the close 
friendship of this young lady for her master, she 
did not dare to protest. She contented herself with 
grumbling at her when she went to visit her former 
mistress, and calling her a meddler and a fool. The 
longer it continued, with the more ill-will did she 
resist, and she ended by speaking her mind, as we 


FAITH. 


135 


shall have occasion to sec. Neither was Father Gil 
tranquil nor content in this atmosphere of delicate 
attentions, affection, and veneration in which the 
young woman had enveloped him. Despite the fact 
that he professed a lively admiration for her, and ap- 
preciated her advice, he experienced a vague sense 
of discomfort every time that he beheld her occupied 
with the care of his person. It seemed to him that 
this was lowering the spiritual character of that 
friendship, formed and maintained for the purpose 
of improving their souls, of aiding each other in the 
path of perfection. He found no mention of Santa 
Teresa having darned the socks of San Juan de la 
Cruz. Moreover, he could not well reconcile that 
disdain for the flesh which she practiced so well on 
herself, with the comforts with which she insisted 
on surrounding him. Why should she be so severe 
toward herself, and so mild toward him ? Could she, 
by any chance, suppose that he was so weak and 
cowardly that he could not live without such cares? 

Father Gil pondered this subject, as he leaned on 
the railing of a grated corridor which opened from 
his house toward the sea. The sun was setting 
amid crimson clouds, flooding the town and the har- 
Dor with a wave of warm, reddish light. The cur- 
tain of rocks which closes it in on the opposite shore, 
raised its enormous mass above the waters, casting 
a vase expanse of shadow. And amid that black- 
ness, the eyes of the priest caught a flash of the 
waves, which displayed and concealed their white 
crests at brief intervals. The pier was deserted : 
the hour for the return of the launches was not yet 


136 


FAITH. 


come. The tenders and smacks pitched gently, im- 
patient at their inactipn. A sea-gull hovered in con- 
centric circles, brushing the surface of the water 
with its wings. The far-off, gentle sound of the 
waves filled the slumbering air with a low murmur. 
The little harbor alone lived in the mobile play of the 
light which bathed it in a blood-red glow, and which 
gradually withdrew behind the cliffs. 

He was so absorbed that Da. Josefa was obliged 
to call three times from the door before he turned 
round. 

‘‘ What is it ? ” 

There is a lady downstairs who has asked for 
you. She says she must speak with you at once.” 

A lady?” replied Father Gil, opening his eyes 
very wide. Is it not Seftorita Obdulia ? ” 

‘‘ No, sefior, ’tis not she,” replied the housekeeper, 
with a disdainful movement of her lips. “ The lady 
who is waiting down stairs is much prettier and 
more elegant.” 

“Do you not know her?” he asked, somewhat 
abashed by the meaning which he noted in her 
words. 

“ No, sefior, she is a stranger in town.” 

“Then show her upstairs.” 

A few seconds later a pretty young woman, 
about eight-and-twenty years of age, made her ap- 
pearance, a blonde, with very white skin, and deli- 
cate features, dressed with wonderful elegance. In 
all his life Father Gil had never beheld, not even in 
Lancia, so distinguished a lady. Her attire was 
simple, a traveling gown, but it was so original, and 


FAITH. 


137 


the cut was so elegant in all its details, that -the lofty 
rank of the wearer was immediately visible. Her 
person exhaled an agreeable perfume, which attacked 
the nostrils as soon as she set foot in the room. 
He looked at her with surprise, which was speedily 
converted into stupefaction when he beheld the lady 
advance with decision toward him, and, without 
uttering a word, drop on her knees at his feet, and 
break out sobbing. 

“Sefiora! for Heaven’s sake — rise!” he said in 
perturbation. 

The lady did not move. 

“ Senora, rise,” he repeated, seizing her gently by 
the arm. 

The stranger rose in silence, dropped into a chair^ 
pushed up the veil on the hat which concealed her 
eyes, and wiped them with her handkerchief. 
Father Gil remained standing before her, and waited 
for her to explain herself. And, as she gave no 
signs of doing so, but concealed her face more and 
more, he ventured to say : 

“ Senora, I should be glad to know in what way I 
can be of service to you.” 

She still waited several minutes before replying. 
Finally she said, without removing the handkerchief 
from her eyes : 

“ I am the wife of D. Alvaro Montesinos.” 

The vicar involuntarily retreated a step. 

What? that lady was the wretched woman who 
had been the cause of the misfortunes of D. Alvaro, 
of whi)m his godmother, Da. Eloisa, always spoke 
with horror ? For he knew the sad history of that 


138 


FAITH. 


marriage. The heir of the house of the Montesinos 
had fallen madly in love with a young girl of good 
family, but without money; one of those girls who 
are to be seen in Madrid in all the theaters, and 
balls, in search of a rich husband. Although he was 
a Montesinos, Joaquinita Dominguez (that was her 
name) had kept him in suspense for a while, prob- 
ably in the hope that some other man would come 
along with an equal amount of money and a better 
figure ; for that of the grandee of Peflascosa was 
certainly the most infirm and wretched that could 
be found. But as the other man did not make his 
appearance, she made up her mind one day to fall 
desperately in love with him, and to show it in a way 
that should leave no room for doubt. “All elegant 
Madrid ” will remember the pretty blonde who had 
a box on the first circle of the Royal Theater, who 
passed the evening chatting with a lean and pallid 
gentleman seated in the row behind; who, in the 
Comedy and Apollo theaters, never removed her 
opera glasses from his place in the parterre ; who 
towed him after her on the promenade of the Re- 
tiro, and even in the morning, when she went shop- 
ping, was always seen with him, escorted by her 
mamma. Fully convinced of her love, the noble- 
man asked her in marriage, and obtained her not 
without difficulty, since it cost the mamma many 
tears to entrust to him that jewel, who was the joy 
of her house. During the first four months, D. Al- 
varo spent his income for the whole year. Joaquin- 
ita must have her carriage and her box ^t the 
theaters, and she gave receptions and balls. But 


FAITH. 


she was so beautiful, and her husband found her so 
merry, that with the frantic love which he felt for 
her, he would not have refused her his heart’s blood, 
if she had asked him for it some day, after a long, 
oppressive, spasmodic kiss of love, such as she be- 
stowed upon him when she wished to beg him for a 
riviere of diamonds, or a double-spring carriage. 

At the expiration of precisely six months, the 
young wife took it into her head to travel through 
Spain — a long journey which was to last a year or 
more; to visit all France, Italy, then proceed to 
England, pass on to Germany, and run on even as 
far as St. Petersburg. The enamored Montesinos 
interposed no obstacles to this desire, although he 
should have done so. A considerable capital was 
required to realize it, in view of the comfort and 
ostentation with which Joaquinita insisted upon 
traveling. He borrowed 30,000 reales on some of 
his landed property, and then left Madrid. In 
Hendaya they saw in the railway hotel, drinking 
his chocolate, Federico Torres, a Madrid man, the 
son of the Minister of Finance. Joaquinita had 
always found him very antipathetic, without know- 
ing why. 

“ Where is that dwarf going? ” she asked in a low 
tone, after replying coldly to his bow. 

Montesinos shrugged his shoulders indifferently. 

‘‘ What a quarrel you seem to have with that fel- 
low ! He strikes me as nice and agreeable ! ” 

“ What a horror ! ” she exclaimed with a laugh. 

At Pau, they saw him once more at the station, and 
then they did not see him again. The married pair 


140 


FAITH. 


had planned to remain four or five days at Marseilles ; 
but on the third day, when D. Alvaro returned 
from the station, whither he had gone to arrange 
about the sleeping car for the following day, he was 
greatly surprised not to find his wife in the house. 
His surprise was converted into a horrible stupor, 
when he observed the state of disorder of their 
apartment. His wife’s huge trunk had disappeared. 
Various pieces of clothing lay on the floor. The 
servants told him that his wife had had the trunk 
taken away after his departure, in order that it 
might be copied in a smaller size, as she had said. 
Then she had gone out, and had not returned. 
Montesinos, overwhelmed, horrified at the idea that 
flashed through his brain, with convulsed hand 
opened the secret drawer of the coffer in which he 
kept his money. Not a centime remained there. 
Comprehending at once the full extent of his mis- 
fortune, he fell to the floor as though struck by light- 
ning. For days he lay between life and death. When 
he recovered consciousness, he caused a telegram to 
be dispatched to his brother-in-law, D. Martin, who 
presented himself immediately, and took him to 
Pefiascosa. They speedily learned that Joaquinita 
had run away with Federico Torres, and that they 
were traveling merrily through Europe with the 
nobleman’s money. 

This was the woman whom Father Gil had before 
him. After his first movement of repulsion, he re- 
covered himself and said : 

“ Calm yourself a little, sefiora, and tell me how I 
can serve you.” 


FAITH. 


141 

“ I have just arrived from Madrid/' the lady ar- 
ticulated with difficulty, “ and I went to the house 
of my husband, with whom I have been on bad 
terms for some time. I desire to become recon- 
ciled with him ; that this separation, which is so 
ugly and so scandalous, should come to an end. An 
old servant whom he has — a brute ! — would not per- 
mit me to see him, seized me by the arm, flung me 
out of the house roughly; yes, with blows ! ” 

Here the lady broke out sobbing once more, and 
covered her face again with her handkerchief. 

The priest waited for her to continue ; but 
seeing that she did not, he took up the word 
again. 

“ I greatly regret this occurrence, sefiora ; but I 
do not think you have any reason to be so afflicted. 
The offenses which are pardoned are not felt. For- 
give this poor servant who acted without knowing 
what he was doing, and tell me what I can do to 
help you." 

The faithless wife dried her eyes. They grew wet 
again, and again she dried them. 

“According to what they tell me here in the town, 
you are the only person who visits my husband. I 
entreat you, by all that is holy, since you are his 
friend, to intercede, that our separation may cease. 
I have desired it eagerly for a long time. I confess 
that I was not good to him." 

“Yes, yes, I know all," interrupted the priest im- 
patiently. 

The lady turned very red. 

“ I confess that I have given him grave offense. 


FAITH. 


^ 4 ^ 

It was a moment of blindness — a temptation of the 
devil. But I have always loved him and I love him 
still. I do not object to humiliating myself, to beg- 
ging his pardon on my knees. You see, father, if I 
were not willing to humiliate myself The 

idea of not obtaining his pardon, of dying far away 
from him, accursed, horrifies me. Ah ! what a 
frightful future! If I have sinned much, believe 
me, I have suffered much of late.” 

“ Seflora, you can easily understand that it would 
be a great satisfaction to me to unite a parted married 
couple — you the same as any others. My mission 
is to preach concord among men, and to die for it 
if necessary. Even without being requested, it is 
my duty, my charge, to bring about in this parish 
the reconciliation of unhappy husbands and wives. 
But this is a delicate case. Apart from the very 
grave offense which you have inflicted on your hus- 
band, from the scandal with which it was accom- 
panied, of those scandals which have followed it, all 
which combine to render reconciliation extraordi- 
narily difficult ; apart from this, I repeat, there is 
another and a greater difficulty. And that is, that 
your husband stands outside the pale of the 
Catholic Church. I have no other influence over 
him than that which a superficial acquaintance 
gives. None of the arguments, to which I could 
appeal as a priest, possess any power over his mind. 
On the contrary, given his ideas, it is possible that 
they would serve only to enrage him the more, or 
furnish him with occasion for ridicule.” 

“Yes, yes,” interrupted the lady with a shrill, 


FAITH. 


143 


malevolent voice, “my husband has always been a 
godless man ; a scandalous atheist.” 

“ Seflora, belief serves but little purpose if a man 
behaves as though he did not believe,” replied the 
vicar severely, for he was wounded by the aggressive 
tone of the lady, so contrary to her former humility. 

She colored up, and dropped her eyes, again affect- 
ing deep contrition. Father Gil continued : 

“ On every ground, as a Christian and as a priest, 
I am ready to do all that lies within my power to 
effect what you desire. I have great doubt as to 
the result of my intervention. I know, also, that 
I am exposing myself to the danger of being flung 
out of the house like yourself ; but I care not for 
that. I will do my duty, and if we meet with no 
success, I shall, at least, have the satisfaction of 
having done it.” 

He reflected for a few minutes, while the lady 
kept her intense and anxious gaze fixed upon him. 
Then, as though he were speaking more to himself 
than to her, he continued : 

“ There are some objections to my presenting 
myself at D. Alvaro’s house now. The townsfolk 
are curious. There would be gossip — after the scan- 
dal. I think that we should wait awhile until night 
has fully fallen, or better still, that I should go on 
in advance and sound him on the subject.” 

“ No, no ! ” exclaimed the lady. “ You would not 
prevail. He would refuse to receive me. He must 
be taken unawares ; we must take advantage of the 
first impulse of his heart, which is generous. After- 
ward when he reflects, he becomes bad. scoffing.” 


144 


FAITH. 


“ As^ou like. Then we will wait. 

But the moment he had uttered these words, he 
was impressed with the inconvenience of remaining 
so long alone with a woman, and he said, with a 
little perturbation : 

“ You will permit me to leave you alone for a few 
moments in the meanwhile. I will come to you 
later.” 

Instead of returning to her, he sent his house- 
keeper to keep her company. Only when the day- 
light had completely died away did he go upstairs 
once more, hat in hand, prepared to leave the house. 
D. Alvaro’s wife rose from her seat as soon as she 
saw him in this attire. 

Night had already fallen. The seafaring people 
had retired to their houses or to the wine shops. 
Very few pedestrians were abroad in the long street 
of the Quadrant. The vicar and Montesinos’ wife 
walked along for a time in silence, in the direction 
of the Field of Discouragements. As they drew 
near it both felt agitated, fearful. They halted a 
moment, as much for the purpose of calming them- 
selves as to prepare themselves, and entering the 
arch of a doorway they whispered together with 
animation. Father Gil insisted on his idea that he 
should enter the house first and probe D. Alvaro’s 
mind ; he feared a scandal. The lady opposed this 
warmly, positively convinced that her husband 
would absolutely refuse to receive her, and that he 
would take precautions that she would not set foot 
across the threshold of his house. Just when they 
were most deeply engrossed in their discussion, 


FAITH. 


145 


from the arch of another doorway near at hand, a 
dark, tall, slender shadow emerged and approached 
them rapidly. 

“Good-evening, father; good-evening.’' 

It was Osuna’s daughter. In the inflection of 
her voice, as she uttered these words, there was a 
certain irony, mingled with wrath, which surprised 
both the lady and the priest. The latter raised his 
head and replied coldly : 

“ Good-evening, daughter.” 

“ Are you going to the Angelus, or are you com- 
ing away ? ” she inquired, with the same affected 
tone of voice. 

“ I am neither going to nor coming from the 
Angelus, my daughter. At this moment I am occu- 
pied with matters pertaining to my ministry,” re- 
plied Father Gil in a severe tone. 

But this tone, instead of soothing or intimidating 
the young woman, appeared to ruffle her. 

“You are always doing something for God, 
father, he ! he! in the church as well as at the bed- 
side of the dying — and in the recesses of doorways, 
he ! he ! If you die before me, you have a witness 
to some of your miracles, so that they can canon- 
ize you. Go on, I do not wish to interfere 
with the miracle. Farewell, until we meet. He! 
he ! ” 

And when she had taken two or three steps, she 
said, without turning round: 

“And much good may it do you ! ” 

Montesinos’ wife raised her head and fixed upon 
Father Gil a look of amazement and curiosity. 


146 


FAITH. 


“ Who is that ?” 

The priest, crimson with shame and indignation, 
shrugged his shoulders in token of ignorance, and 
they set out once more for the great mansion of 
Montesinos. 


VL 


When they pulled the rusty bell-cord, the same 
lugubrious Jungle which had so oppressed Father 
Gil on the first occasion that he had set foot in this 
house, produced upon both of them a quiver of 
fear and anxiety. Ramiro’s broken voice speedily 
made itself heard. 

“ Who is it ? ” 

“ Peaceable people — friends.” 

Who is it ? ” the question was repeated. 

“ It is I, Ramiro. Open,” replied the priest. 

The door swung slowly on its hinges, and the 
silhouette of the old man appeared, faintly illumi- 
nated by the light of the tiny lamp which burned 
above the lintel. 

“ Come in, Sefior Vicar,” he said, without perceiv- 
ing the lady, who had hidden herself behind the 
priest. But catching sight of her at last he retreated 
a pace, and extending his arms in the attitude of 
impeding her passage, he exclaimed : 

“Ah! You come back with company? This 
won’t do. You shall not enter; that you shall 
not!” 

“ Come, Ramiro,” said the priest, gently laying 
his hand on his shoulder, “ let us pass ; this is a 
delicate subject and does not concern you.” 

“ You may pass if you like, but this woman may 
not.” 


147 


148 


FAITH. 


“Why cannot she enter?” asked the priest, 
haughtily, throwing back his head. 

“ Because dishonest women and thieves cannot 
enter here.” 

In the presence of this barbarous insult the lady 
hid her face in her hands, and a moan escaped her. 
Father Gil flushed, and seizing the ol(f*man by the 
arm, he shook him violently. 

“ Be civil, and if you do not respect the garb which 
I wear, observe the courtesies which are due to ladies. 
Before God and men, this is the legitimate wife of 
your master. Leave the passage free ; all that you 
have to do in this matter is to hear, see, and hold 
your tongue.” 

And giving the old man a push, he turned round, 
saying : 

“ Come, seftora.” 

But Ramiro, agitated, convulsed, as though he 
were seized with a fainting fit and were ready to 
fall, ran on in front of them shouting: 

“Alvaro! Alvaro! That female is entering thy 
house ! ” 

Two servants made their appearance on the stair- 
case, and gazed at the scene in amazement. The 
old man did not halt on the principal floor; he ran 
on to the second, giving vent to the same cries. 
Father Gil, who followed him with Joaquinita, said 
to the latter, as they reached the first story : 

“ Remain here for the present. I will go upstairs 
alone.” 

When he reached the second story he ran 
against D. Alvaro, who was just coming out of his 


FAITH. 


149 


room. His face, always pale, was now of a hue 
which inspired terror. In four words Ramiro had 
acquainted him with what had taken place. ’In the 
afternoon, when the unfaithful wife had come for the 
first time, he had not told him. D. Alvaro uttered 
not a word. He grasped one of the priest’s arms 
convulsively and dragged him into his study. Then 
he shut the door carefully. 

“ Why is this woman come ? ” he inquired, mak- 
ing futile efforts to appear calm. His voice came 
weak and hoarse from his throat. 

“She is come to implore your pardon.” 

“You are mistaken ; she is come for money,” he 
replied with a forced smile. 

Father Gil remained silent for a moment, then 
said : 

“ I dare not make you any assurances. She ap- 
pears to be repentant. Her tone is sincere ; she has 
wept with genuine grief in my presence.” 

A flash of wrath darted from the eyes of the 
nobleman. In the throng of emotions which agi- 
tated his spirit, indignation gained the upper hand 
over the rest, and he said in a tone of disdain : 

“ I am perfectly convinced that she comes for 
nothing but money, but in any case I don’t care a 
rush for her repentance or her sincerity. If she is 
repentant, let her ask absolution of a priest. To 
cherish, for an instant, the thought that I can par- 
don her is a fresh insult ; it is an idea that could be 
contained only in a soul as miserable as hers.” 

“Pardon never degrades; it is the virtue which 
most ennobles a human being,” remarked the priest 


FAITH. 


in surprise. D. Alvaro darted upon him a glance 
of rage ; then he shrugged his shoulders with scorn 
and said : 

“ It is well ; let us leave this subject.. The im- 
portant point is that, as you have brought this lady 
hither, you should immediately take her away 
again.” 

“ I shall venture to entreat you that, although you 
do not pardon her, you will, at least, permit her to 
speak with you. Perhaps she has some revelations 
to make.” 

“I am not curious : she may keep her revelations, 
or confide them to anyone whom she pleases. For 
my part, heed well what I am about to say to* you,” 
and he seized his wrist with convulsive fingers, “ for 
my part, neither now nor ever will I exchange a 
word with her. You may tell her so.” 

Father Gil dropped his head and remained silent, 
while the nobleman began to pace in agitation up 
and down the room with his hands thrust in his 
pockets. From time to time a sarcastic smile 
rose to his face, and a slightly stertorous breath- 
ing escaped through his nostrils, bearing witness 
to the tension of his mind, as the gauge reveals 
the tension in the steam boiler. 

“ This cannot be,” said the priest gently, after 
a while, “you will understand, D. Alvaro, that this 
lady cannot go outside this house to sleep without 
giving pabulum to evil tongues, without calling 
up again gossip which should not be repeated. 
Out of egotism, if not out of charity, you must 
consent to allow your wife to sleep in this house 


FAITH. 15 1 

to-night, for I do not think that it would suit you 
to scandalize the town.” 

D. Alvaro continued his agitated pacing to and 
fro, witho^it uttering a word in reply, as though he 
had not heard the priest’s proposition. After a 
while he planted himself in front of him, and, gaz- 
ing fixedly at him, he said : 

“ It is well. Tell her that, if she likes, there is no 
objection to her sleeping in this house; although she 
must have very little dignity to accept it,” he 
added, lowering his voice and emphasizing each 
syllable. “ And if she wants money for her return 
journey, Osuna will provide her with it.” 

“ I thank you for this condescension, but I go 
away in great sadness,” replied Father Gil with a 
smile. “ Any sacrifice will help to blot out of 
your memory the offense endured, and to solder the 
chain of your marriage afresh. What would I not 
give at this moment to be an eloquent man ! ” 

“ Eloquence, sir vicar, has served in the commis- 
sion of a thousand infamous deeds in this world, 
but I do not believe that there could be any greater 
than the one which you propose to me.” 

“ For you, it is a contemptible deed, but for me 
it would be a noble and generous act, fit for an 
imitator of Christ. We do not understand each 
other in that which concerns dignity and indignity.” 

“ I am sorry for you, father,” replied the noble- 
man, offering his hand. 

“And I am sorry for you, D. Alvaro. Good- 
night.” 

When the latter was left alone he continued to 


152 


FAITH. 


pace to and fro for several minutes longer ; then he 
halted before the bell-cord and pulled it violently. 
Ramiro speedily made his appearance. 

“*That woman is here ; do you wish rqe to turn 
her out ? ” asked the old man, without waiting for 
his master’s orders. 

“No; show her to the drawing room, light all 
the lamps, and tell Dolores to come upstairs.” 

The servant remained motionless, gazing at him 
in surprise. 

“ And are you going to consent to that ? ” 

“ Silence !” exclaimed the nobleman with energy, 
laying his finger on his lips. “ Do what I command 
you immediately.” 

The old man withdrew, grumbling. The maid 
presented herself at once. 

“ Dolores, tell the cook to prepare supper for the 
lady who is downstairs, and to do her best. Light 
up the dining room, get out the fine table service, 
arrange the blue cabinet, and take the best linen 
from the press to put on the bed ; let absolutely 
nothing be lacking. Help her undress; anything 
that she may order, do immediately. You under- 
stand ? ” 

“Yes, sir; be at ease ; she will be treated as she 
deserves.” 

D. Alvaro cast an oblique glance at the maid, 
and hastened to say, rather curtly : 

“ Dispatch your business quickly and show her 
the blue room. If she desires to sleep elsewhere, 
show her what you call the Bishop’s room.” 

Again he was left alone, and again he resumed 


FATTH, 


153 


his nervous walk from corner to corner of the room. 
In spite of all the fortitude and the calm which he 
had displayed in repulsing Father Gil’s supplica- 
tions, his brain was working in an agitated, feverish 
manner. This wholly unexpected visit renewed the 
happy and melancholy memories which were treas- 
ured up in the depths of his being, and which no 
longer troubled him. His matrimonial life, which 
had been fading out of his memory for the space 
of three years, like a dream which vanishes in the 
light of dawn, promptly rose up before his eyes, 
so close that he could touch it with his hand. 
Not a detail was lacking in the picture. And, in 
the presence of this picture, he felt himself per- 
turbed, as though the events had but just taken 
place. 

After pacing to and fro several minutes, with 
long strides, he began to halt frequently, lending 
an ear to the noises which reached him from the 
first story. He divined, rather than perceived, 
the preparations which the servants were engaged 
in making in honor of that vile woman, who had 
revealed to him the full blackness and the full 
misery of existence. “ Now they are lowering the 
lamp in the dining room — now they are taking 
out the table service — they must be making the 
bed — the people have withdrawn — someone has 
left the house ; it must be Rufino, who has gone to 
the shop for something — there seems to be talk- 
ing in the blue room.” 

He no longer walked about ; with his ear glued 
to the keyhole, he listened eagerly to the sounds 


FAITH. 


154 

which reached him from below. And, as they 
arrived too confusedly, he ended by opening the 
door, advancing his head cautiously as far as the 
balustrade of the staircase, and listening from that 
point, motionless, with bated breath. He had 
imagined, in a vague sort of way, that his wife, 
once free and alone, would come up to his room 
to talk to him. He would have liked this, for 
the sake of giving himself the pleasure of casting 
her off with some disdainful phrases which would 
penetrate to the bottom of her soul. There was an 
instant when he thought that this desire was about 
to be realized. He heard footsteps on the stairs ; 
all his blood flowed back to his heart. 

He made haste to quit the baluster and return to 
his own room. It was Dolores, who had come up 
to ask him for a key. When she went away, he re^ 
turned to his spying ; he remained a long time on 
the staircase, without knowing why he did so. He 
heard the confused sound of his wife and Dolores 
chatting together. The maid was talkative; Joa- 
quinita also had an expansive temperament ; the 
conversation grew more and more animated. He 
even fancied that he caught some merry laughs on 
the part of his wife, which surprised him more than 
they angered him. At length he noticed that she 
had sat down to supper. Dolores went and came 
with dishes. The supper came to an end. The 
maid halted in the dining room and continued her 
gossip. Weary with standing, he seated himself on 
one of the steps of the staircase. As he did so, he 
felt ashamed, and he began to call himself vaguely 


FAITH. 


155 


to account for the emotions which held his 
spirit in suspense. He waited for one long hour, in 
this manner, hearing the confused sound of voices, 
in which he could distinguish nothing, not even 
which belonged to his wife and which to the servant. 
At last he observed that they had left the dining 
room. He still imagined that his wife would profit 
by the opportunity to come upstairs to visit him. 
He rose hastily to his feet, and prepared to rush 
into his room as soon as he should hear steps on the 
stairs. But he waited in vain. The lady betook 
herself to the blue chamber, accompanied by 
Dolores. He heard the door close behind them ; 
then he noticed that it opened again, and that the 
maid came out and went away to her own room. 
No doubt, she had helped the lady to undress, and 
had left her in bed. 

With his head between his hands, and his elbows 
resting on his knees, he remained motionless, ab- 
stracted, listening now to the voice of his thought 
alone and to the beating of his heart. He was de- 
voured by a lively vexation, which he did not wish 
to account for to himself. He felt the necessity of 
coming face to face with his wife, of insulting her, 
of spitting on her, of striking her. Why had he 
refused to receive her a little while ago, and why 
did he now long to have her before him in this 
manner? He believed that it was because his 
hatred and his indignation had increased. He did 
not know how long he remained in that posture. 
The desire to come face to face with his wife 
burned more vividly every moment in his breast. 


156 


FAITH. 


rendered him uneasy, excited ; it was gradually 
turning to a fever, to an intense rage, which de- 
voured him. Oh, if he could only hold her in his 
hands, and crush her until she screamed with pain ; 
if he could only make her suffer 'in body what he 
had suffered in soul ! Red-hot points of iron 
seared his shoulders, his hands trembled as though 
they longed to strangle in order to calm his anguish ; 
an intolerable heat surged up from his feet to his 
brain. The shadows grew thicker and enveloped 
him in a warm, stifling atmosphere, as though he had 
been in an underground cave. There came a 
moment when he thought that he could not move ; 
his swollen limbs refused to obey his will. He 
made an effort, as though to break a net which held 
him down, and rose to his feet. He betook himself 
to his room, with vacillating steps. The light of 
the lamp which burned on the table dazzled him so 
that he was on the point of falling from his con- 
fused vision. He extinguished it with a breath, 
groped for the window, and threw it wide open, A 
strong gust of wind struck him in the face, and 
made its way with a roar into the room, where it 
set the papers on the table a-flying. D. Alvaro in- 
haled with delight the cold, damp air, thrust him- 
self out of the window, and exposed his burning 
brow to the inclemency of the gale. The thousand 
needles of rain pricked his cheeks and, converted 
into tears, bathed them completely. For a few 
minutes he enjoyed this cold with a sense of luxury, 
longing to have it penetrate his brain and calm its 
tumultuous activity. The night was not dark. In 


FAITH. 


157 


spite of a heavy canopy of clouds, the light of the 
moon contrived to break through, and scattered a 
faint, melancholy light. Only when some great 
cloud, more dense, and blacker than usual, passed 
in front of it, discharging its burden of water, was 
the light almost completely extinguished. The 
waves dashed against the cliffs which served as a 
bulwark to the Field of Discouragements. The 
wind whistled among the crevices of the church 
tower. The lugubrious music of the enraged ele- 
ments calmed the nobleman’s fever a little. 

Consoled by this freshness, he breathed freely ; 
he thought that he was master of himself once 
more. Nevertheless, at the expiration of a few 
moments, the same acute, burning desire, returned 
to oppress his brain. Oh, if he could but have 
that infamous woman before him, that he might 
spew out in her face the insults which his pain and 
his indignation had accumulated during three years ; 
then he would instantly seize her by the neck, so, 
and wring it ! That instant of pleasure would re- 
pay him for the torments which he had gone 
through — one minute which was worth a whole 
existence of pain. And why not enjoy it? Was 
not the murderer of his happiness in his power? 
Was not she there below, sleeping tranquilly, while 
he was still writhing in cruel tortures ? He re- 
treated a little way from the window, and dried his 
face with his handkerchief. He felt that he was 
powerless to fight with this craving for vengeance. 
All his philosophy, unconsoling, indifferent, had 
foundered. The world had ceased to be a pure ap- 


FAITH, 


158 

pearance ; it was converted into an undeniable 
reality ; life had acquired the absolute value which it 
has for every finite being. He was forced, in de- 
spite of reason, to satisfy the animal instincts which 
howl in the depths of our being. In vain, with the 
object of calming himself, did he tell himself that 
all those emotions were of no value or significance 
in the eternal course of things ; that, within a short 
time, all would be smoke ; in vain did he represent 
to himself the imbecility of the human being, 
struggling and suffering as the holocaust of a force 
which mocked at him. All his thoughts dashed 
against a mighty, irrational desire which dominated 
him. The brute, as is always the case, was more 
powerful than the philosopher. 

He groped for the door, and, clinging to the walls, 
he reached the staircase. As he descended the 
first step, his boots resounded in the silence of the 
house. He sat down, and took them off. Then he 
slipped downstairs, without making the slightest 
noise. He advanced without stumbling, thanks to 
his perfect familiarity with the house, along the 
corridors until he reached the door of the blue 
chamber. At that moment, the great clock in the 
dining room struck. He did not know to what hour 
this half-hour stroke belonged. He placed his ear 
at the keyhole, and remained there fora while listen- 
ing, without perceiving any sound. Without doubt, 
Joaquinita was already asleep. Then he slipped 
to the small door which opened from the alcove 
on a narrow passage, and listened again. After a 
moment he could hear an even, serene breathing. 


FAITH. 


159 


A quick shiver ran through his whole body when he 
perceived it. He felt a lump in his throat, but it 
was a lump of fire ; his heart seemed ready to leap 
from his breast ; he laid his hands upon it to stop 
its palpitations. The traitress was sleeping tran- 
quilly, without heeding him ! So that desire for 
reconciliation was a farce ? She had come solely 
in search of money ? What a wretch ! What an 
odious woman ! 

Employing all imaginable precautions, he grasped 
the bolt and gave it a push. The door of com- 
munication was fastened on the inside. Then he , 
went to the door of the cabinet. This was open. 
He advanced through the room on the tips of his 
toes, holding his breath, reached the alcove, and 
lifted the curtains. He took another step, and 
came in contact with the bed : he laid his hands on 
it, and slid it along towards the head. He felt the 
pressure of his wife’s body as it heaved with her 
respiration. He approached his face to the spot 
where the lady’s head should be, and said, very 
softly : 

“ Joaquina, Joaquina.’ 

She did not wake. 

“ Joaquina, Joaquina,” he repeated. 

Still she made no movement. 

Then he shook her lightly by the shoulder, calling 
her again by her name. 

The lady uttered a cry and awoke in a fright. 

** Who is it ? Who is here? ” 

Do not be alarmed, it is said the nobleman, 
in a faint voice. 


i6o FAITH, 

“Who? Who?’' replied the lady, with signs of 
terror in her voice, throwing herself against the 
wall. 

“It is I, Alvaro. See here,” he added in a 
trembling voice — “I know that you have come to 
make friends. You have done well. Let us forget 
all; let us commence a new life.” 

The lady made no reply. Crouching against the 
wall, her respiration, still panting with fear, could 
be heard. 

“ I have made superhuman efforts to forget you,” 
^ he continued, in the same trembling voice, deadened 
by emotion, “ but they have been useless. You are 
fixed in my breast with iron and fire. You have 
been my first, my only love in this world. You have 
done me much harm, very much ! but if you were 
to do me a thousand times as much, I would love 
you still ; yes, I love you, I adore you ! Though 
they may call me a coward, and unworthy, I will 
repeat it in the face of the whole world. If you did 
but know how I have suffered ! It was not my 
ruined dignity and my pride which made me suffer. 
It was my heart which suffered. What an afflic- 
tion ! What profound sadness ! It seemed as 
though an icy hand were gently tearing out my 
vitals. But I overlook everything. I do overlook 
it all, do I not ? Let us begin to love each other 
anew, as on that night when I clasped you in my 
arms for the first time, in an alley of trees in the 
gardens of Aranjuez.” 

The same silence on the part of Joaquina. 

“Answer me. Havel frightened you, my darling? 


FAITH, 


i6i 


Forgive me. Why did you not come upstairs at 
once, as soon as that priest was gone? Did you 
think that I would cast you out ? No, my precious 
one, no. I love you ; I adore you ! ” 

At the same time, stretching out his hands, he hit 
upon one of his wife’s hands, and raised it to his 
lips with enthusiasm. The lady hastily drew it away. 

D. Alvaro was surprised. 

“Why do you draw your hand away? Am not I 
offering mine, and am not I the offended party? 
Are not you come to be reconciled with me ? ” 

“ Yes, yes, Alvaro,” she murmured. “ I am come 
for that purpose. You have frightened me.” 

“ Forgive me, Joaquina. If you only knew what 
joy it gives me to hear your voice ! I thought that 
I should never, never hear it again ! Will you be 
my wife*? ” 

“ No, Alvaro,” the faithless wife murmured once 
more. “To-morrow. Leave me ; I am very tired. 
Leave me until to-morrow.” 

“ I will not molest you. You shall sleep in tran- 
quility.” 


VIL 


After venting her wrath, Osuna’s daughter pur- 
sued her way down the street of the Quadrant, still 
laughing nervously for a while. But this laugh 
finally died away. She felt a strange restlessness, a 
certain low-spiritedness which made her limbs bend 
beneath her. She halted for a moment; she was 
seized with a desire to return and spy again upon 
the pair whom she had left yonder on the Field of 
Discouragements. The fear of being observed re- 
strained her. She was also conscious, though 
vaguely, of the singularity and censurable character 
of her conduct. Why had she done that ? Who 
was she, to spy upon the steps of her confessor, not 
to speak of blaming him ? Her vexation was so 
great, nevertheless, that it did not allow of her re- 
penting. Her mouth was parched ; her cheeks 
burned. She walked on hastily, and directed her 
course to the pier. It was already deserted. The 
sea breeze refreshed her a little. But she still felt 
so agitated that she did not wish to return home ; 
she felt the need of gossiping, of distracting her 
thoughts. She would go to Da. Eloisa’s and sup 
there, as on other occasions. 

The husband and wife were on the point of sitting 
down to table when she arrived. They were accom- 
panied by Father Norberto, which signified that 
there was to be tripe. 

x6a 


FAITH. 163 

** How breathless you are, my child ! exclaimed 
Da. Eloisa. 

“Don’t you know? I come only from Da. Trin- 
idad’s. I am going to take supper with you. Do 
me the favor to send a message to papa.” 

She tried to appear serene and smiling. 

“So you are alone, eh? Alone at eight o’clock 
in the evening,” said D. Martin, in a jesting tone of 
reproof. 

“Ah, if you only knew how agitated I am !' There 
are so few people in the streets. At one moment I 
found myself alone, and I set out to run until I 
found some women.” 

“What ! Are you afraid that they would take you 
for one of those whom Father Norberto here hunts 
with a lasso,” began D. Martin again, with the Attic 
humor of the camp. 

The young woman blushed to her very ears. Da. 

! Eloisa darted a severe look at her husband. 

“Come, don’t begin your barbarous talk, Mar- 
tin.” 

“ Lord, I’m only suggesting the possibility of a 
mistake! ” replied the veteran, with a laugh. “And 
otherwise, I appeal to Father Norberto to say 
whether there is much difference in face between 
a young lady and his little friends.” 

“ They are not my friends, D. Martin,” replied the 
good priest, laughing benevolently ; “ they are wan- 
I dering sheep.” 

i “ But you throw stones at them to make them re- 
- turn to the fold, without kisses.” 

“Oh! Oh! D. Martin!” 


164 


FAITH. 


Good Father Norberto, chaplain and organist oi 
the parish, too modest to aspire to rendering faith 
and virtue triumphant among the upper classes, had 
dedicated himself with enthusiasm for some time 
past to wresting from vice those poor women who 
fall, for the most part, through misery. He made 
his way into the loathsome dwellings which they 
occupied, catechized them, employing gigantic ef- 
forts of oratory which made him as red as a tomato, 
and obliged him to cough in an imposing manner. 
And when the art of Bossuet produced no effect, he 
appealed to money. It was a pious sort of bribery, 
in which he had expended the small property which 
he had inherited from his parents, and which also 
ran away with the greater part of his salary. He 
had brought about the repentance of various sinners, 
whom he was accustomed to remove to a certain 
asylum or convent, established for their bennfit, in 
Valladolid, himself defraying, of course, the cost of 
the journey, their installation, etcetera. Butin return 
for these triumphs the good chaplain suffered terri- 
ble disappointments. On many occasions the fair 
sinners made a show of repentance, bled him of all the 
cuartos which they could, and wound up by jeering at 
him and narrating the jest through the whole town. 
But he was not discouraged in his work. He was 
proof against laughter and calamities. Some who 
had begun by deceiving him had ended in sincere 
repentance. D. Norberto’s dream was to found in 
Pefiascosa a convent for repentant Magdalens. In 
order to bring this about he was capable of begging 
alms through all the province, of working himself. 


FAITH 165 

as a day laborer on the building, of even renouncing 
tripe for the rest of his life. 

Everyone in the town knew about his mania. 
There was no one who did not believe that he had 
a right to launch his jest at it, of a more or less 
heavy character, according to the education of the 
individual. But, however many there might be of 
these, he was never seen to become vexed, or even 
to show signs of impatience. He laughed amiably, 
and retreated, stopping up his ears. Neither did 
anyone doubt, though some affected to do so, his 
upright intentions and the complete disinterested- 
ness with which he labored. The very wretched 
women who deceived him dared not calumniate him, 
and if any one of them had done so, she would have 
been given the lie categorically and promptly by her 
companions. 

“ Martin, I entreat you, for Heaven’s sake, that 
you will not talk nonsense !” exclaimed Da. Eloisa, 
anxiously. 

“ Wife, we are talking of mystic kisses.” 

“Yes, Da. Eloisa,” D. Norberto made haste to 
say; “your husband intends to allude to the gentle 
means which must be employed in order to convince 
these unfortunate women.” 

D. Martin comprehended that he had gone too 
far, and he assented, though not without directing 
an expressive wink at the chaplain. 

They sat down at table. Obdulia made frantic 
efforts to eat, but her stomach refused all food. 
She continued in a very visible state of agitation. 
D. Martin jested with her on her lack of appetite. 


i66 


FAITH. 


Could she, by chance, be in love ? In spite of her 
inclination for the Church, he wagered that she 
would wind up by a violent attachment. He could 
pick out the temperaments destined to love with a 
single glance. There were certain signs: the circle 
under the eyes, which she possessed in a marked 
degree, eyes somewhat turned, parched lips. The 
chief of the veterans had set off once more. Da. 
Eloisa was on needles, and again called him to 
order in a voice of anguish. This happened very 
often. D. Martin enjoyed indescribably making the 
women’s cheeks flush with his daring remarks. It 
seemed to be the proper complement to that other 
tendency of his, to make the cheeks of the men 
flush with his proverbial blows. Both inclinations re- 
vealed his heroic temperament, and supplied incon- 
trovertible testimony to his derivation from the cav- 
alry branch of the service. Obdulia alone was able 
to reply to him with appositeness and grace, leaving 
him, not infrequently, utterly abashed ; but the pre- 
occupation which now weighed upon her prevented 
her taking due note of his words and answering 
them as they deserved. Before the end of the sup- 
per she felt ill, and was obliged to withdraw into 
another room. Later on. Da. Serafina Barrados 
arrived with her chaplain and steward. Both were 
rosy, smiling, and unusually loquacious. Their eyes 
flashed with merry and malicious fire, which at- 
tracted the attention of their friends. 

“ Here’s a cigar, D. Martin,” said the young 
priest, offering him one of a well known make, the 
mate to the one which he was sucking at luxuriously. 


FAITH. 


167 


“Good tobacco !” exclaimed the master of the 
house, turning it between his fingers. “What 
castigations you inflict upon yourself, my friend.” 

“ The regular style,” replied the priest with a 
smile of satisfaction, at the same time darting an 
expressive glance at his former mistress, who re- 
turned it with a brilliant and affectionate look. 

“ Where do you buy them ?” 

“ I don’t buy them ; they are given to me.” 

Another exchange of smiling and passionate 
looks. 

“ Ah ! then ! you get them for a song. May one 
inquire who the very generous gentleman is ? ” 

“ It is not a gentleman ; it is a lady.” 

Another glance. 

“ Ah, you rogue ! I already was aware that you 
enjoyed great favor with the ladies.” 

■ Over the very cheerful face of Da. Serafina flitted 
a cloud, which darkened it momentarily. 

“ It is a present from Da. Serafina, on the occa- 
sion of my birthday, which is to-day,” the priest 
made haste to say. 

“ It had already struck me that you both seemed 
quite too well pleased to-day ! On such an auspi- 
cious occasion, there was a banquet, was there 
not?” 

“What do you mean by a banquet ?” asked D. 
Joaquin, with a certain uneasiness, fearing the mili- 
tary frankness of his friend. 

“ Yes, a little family dinner, with several extraor- 
dinary dishes, and a couple of bottles of Bor- 
deaux.” 


i68 


FAITH. 


It was not Bordeaux,” replied D. Joaquin, laugh- 
ing, “ it was Burgundy.” 

“ Better and better.” 

I believe it,” exclaimed Da. Serafina, devouring 
her chaplain with her eyes. 

And the fire of glances and winks was renewed 
between them, as they lavished on each other a 
thousand warm attentions which betokened a state 
of perfect felicity. 

The arrival of Da. Rita disturbed them not in the 
least. This lady, small and plump, with large, 
black, expressionless eyes, and teeth equally large, 
sound and yellow, always entered with a basket in 
which she carried her work. She drew the work 
out deliberately, worked at it for half an hour in 
silence, listening attentively to all that was said, 
then gathered up her materials once more, and went 
off to repeat the same thing elsewhere. In this 
manner she made the round of several houses every 
evening. Her mania consisted in knowing every- 
thing; in knowing everything down to the most 
trivial and insignificant detail. She was well re- 
ceived everywhere, for in spite of her excessive and 
feverish curiosity, there had never been any un- 
pleasantness on her account. She enjoyed the mere 
knowing; it was an intense, disinterested pleasure, 
like that of the men of science who look only to 
the result with which their knowledge may furnish 
them. As the miser heaps up golden coins in his 
coffer, with no thought of ever making use of 
them, so Da. Rita treasured up in her brain all 
the private information which she could collect in 


FAITH. 


69 


her peregrinations through the town, without an- 
noying anyone with it. Hence, very few persons 
refrained from discussing secrets in her presence; 
but if anyone did so, and she observed it, she 
was seized with such anxiety and pangs to dis- 
cover what they were hiding from her, that she 
did not rest or sleep for a moment ; she went about 
pale and heavy-eyed, and became rude and intracta- 
ble. Once she had unearthed the longed-for secret, 
although it were the most insignificant of matters, 
she recovered her calm and her serenity, and became 
once more gentle, pacific, inoffensive. Some mali- 
cious individuals, like D. Martin, Father Narciso, 
D. Joaquin, and others, were in the habit of 
playing tricks on her by feigning a mystery among 
themselves, tormenting her, and driving her out of 
her mind through pure curiosity. 

But when Father Narciso entered, D. Joaquin 
grew graver, concealing from his companion that 
ineffable bliss which titillated his soul, and avoided 
meeting the sparkling eyes of his former mistress. 
The father smelt the aromatic smoke of the cigar, 
directed one scrutinizing glance at his colleague, an- 
other at Da. Serafina, and grasped the subject. 

“ There has been a gaudeamuSy hasn’t there? ” he 
asked in a low voice. 

D. Joaquin denied it in the most bare-faced 
manner. 

Consejero, Candida, Da. Filomena, Father Mel- 
chor, Marcelino, and, in short, all the habitual 
members of the circle, made their appearance one 
after the other. The customary groups were soon 


T70 


FAITH. 


formed, the elements of this society parted, per- 
forming the chemical operation of elective affini- 
tieSc But this operation was not effected without 
the violent commotions and shocks which are to be 
observed in the bosom of nature, without the actions 
and reactions to which fermentation gives rise. 
On this particular evening, Candida, the bony young 
lady with whom we are already acquainted, instead 
of coming up to kiss Father Melchor’s hand, seat- 
ing herself at his side, and whispering all the 
evening, went and performed the same ceremonies 
with Father Norberto. Why this desertion ? No 
one in the company knew, except the persons 
immediately interested and Da. Rita. Father Mel- 
chor had had the indiscretion to mention, in a cer- 
tain house, that the rochets which the young towns- 
woman made for him, were skimped in the sleeves, 
and that it cost him an effort to bend his arm in 
them. On the other hand, he had bestowed warm 
praise on a band which Da. Marciala had given him. 
The case was grave, and was bound to produce this 
sad result. Da. Marciala, perceiving that Father 
Narciso was ever more and more inclined to permit 
and favor the fervent admiration of Da. Filomena, 
exhibited her feeling and displeasure by making up 
to D. Melchor, and talking to him with affected 
affection. Da. Filomena, after a number of years 
spent in resigned, silent admiration, had finally 
attained the goal of her aspirations when she least 
expected it. So much affection, so much attention 
had finally captivated the mind of the eloquent 
chaplain of Sarrio, who gave the widow clear indi- 


FAITH, 


171 


cations of his esteem. After having attempted it in 
vain many times, she had obtained from him by 
dint of entreaty, that he would take the office of 
preceptor to her son, and he had accepted the post 
with eagerness. His dominating and fiery terhper 
manifested itself later on. The poor child was 
obliged to undergo, not only excessive toil, but a 
series of malevolent castigations, refined in their 
cruelty: and Da. Filomena, who was the personi- 
fication of gentleness, who had never raised her 
hand to her son, passively consented that this man 
should beat him unmercifully. She silenced her 
conscience by telling herself that it was for his 
good. 

Marcelina who had dreamed of supplanting Da. 
Serafina in the heart of D. Joaquin — and she really 
had some grounds for this dream, since the young 
priest never failed to distinguish her by his atten- 
tions from among the rest — suffered considerable 
disappointment. She acquired the conviction that 
the latter had been using her as a tool to make his 
mistress suffer a little, and to keep her more atten- 
tive and submissive. This conviction thrust her 
again in the direction of D. Narciso, whom she had 
abandoned some time previously ; but the latter, 
who had never exhibited any great affection for her, 
as he had for Obdulia, repulsed her without the 
slightest consideration. Nevertheless, the ex-young 
lady continued to do battle bravely with Da. Filo- 
mena. A few days before, she had presented the 
chaplain with a coverlet in crochet work, which was 
a real marvel of patient and skillful toil. It is certain 


172 


FAITH. 


that the widow, when she espied it on the priest’s 
bed, experienced a lively sense of displeasure, and 
shed many tears in secret. 

These spiritual agitations, these conflicts of sensi- 
bility and abnegation between the pious dames who 
took part in it, were precisely what gave a certain 
dramatic interest to this serene, innocent circle. 
They certainly were not the coarse rivalries which 
are set up in profane circles. Here everything was 
effected in a gentle, innocent, spiritual manner; the 
petty shocks which we have described seemed 
merely the '’light ripple on a beautiful and trans- 
parent lake. This assembly was like the ante- 
chamber of heaven, where the relations of the 
angels, of the male and female saints attain the 
highest degree of immortal purity. 

That which was passing in the mind of Osuna’s 
daughter bears out well the idea, which we have just 
formulated. After undergoing that gastric up- 
heaval, the result of the agitated state in which she 
found herself, she fell into a state of profound phys- 
ical and moral weakness. She had the impression 
that a great piece of treachery had been committed 
against her, and, although her mind informed her 
vaguely of the absurdity of such a sensation, she 
could not diminish its intensity, nor rid herself of 
it. She hated Father Gil, she hated him with all 
her heart. She would give something to revenge 
herself. For what? She did not say it to herself; 
but, in the depths of her heart she was per- 
suaded that she had reason for it. She formed 
the inexorable resolution never to confess to him 


FAJTif. 


tn 

again. To him? A priest who goes under door- 
ways by night to whisper with beautiful and elegant 
women ! Puf ! It would be a shame to do it. 
Obdulia was very sure that the woman who was 
talking with her confessor was pretty. This cer- 
tainly tortured her. Positively, if he had the daring 
to come up and address her, she would administer 
to him a severe rebuff, she would turn her back on 
him. And she would confess to D. Narciso again, 
and she would tell her friends in what a situation 
she had seen him, with an unknown and elegant 
lady. For there was no doubt that the woman was 
elegantly dressed, she had marked that well. That 
long cloak had never been made in Peftascosa. 
Who could she be ? Some one from Lancia, of 
course, who was come to pay him a visit. And why 
come from afar to visit a priest, when one was not 
his mother, or his sister, or his relative? Did not 
that lady know that the reputation of a priest is a 
very delicate thing and that a mere trifle ruins it? 
The young woman’s brain kept on turning these 
and similar ideas over and over, while her body 
remained motionless, -dejected, and her eyes were 
riveted upon the hands of Da. Marciala. She felt 
ill, she wished to go home; but a vague hope which 
she could not define, retained her against her 
will. 

In the meanwhile. Father Norberto was surprised 
and confused by the unwonted attentions of which 
Candida made him the object. The poor man was 
not accustomed to have them lavished upon him. 
The fair sex of Peftascosa professed a certain com- 


174 


FAITH. 


passionate disdain where he was concerned. He 
was regarded as a virtuous priest, but of very- 
limited understanding. His very colleagues, when 
they spoke of him, did so with an unvarying 
smile, half patronizing, half mocking, on their 
lips. Father Norberto’s virtue possessed no poetry 
for the ladies, it was lacking in that special 
charm which renders it contagious in other priests, 
it was a pedestrian piety, which was not trans- 
lated into delicate and sublime conceptions, as 
in Father Narciso, Father Gil, and others. Thus, 
rare was the young woman who confessed to him, 
who craved his conversation, or had an inclination 
to envelope him in clouds of incense, as Candida 
was doing at that moment. His very longing to 
redeem fallen women, much as it was respected, did 
not render him sympathetic to young ladies. To 
tell the truth, he got along admirably without this 
sympathy, and it did not prevent his growing fatter 
and fatter every day, and passing his life in laughter. 
The flattery which his new spiritual daughter was 
now engaged in pouring into his ear, in an insinuating 
voice, instead of pleasing him, disturbed and annoyed 
him visibly. It was one of the rare occasions on 
which he could be seen in a serious mood. He made 
his chair squeak, changed his position every instant, 
and cracked the joints of his hands in a formidable 
manner, coughed, turned red, and, from time to 
time, allowed a slight snort to escape from his 
throat, this being the manner in which his alarmed 
modesty protested. Finally, greatly allured by the 
sweet prospect of a game of ombre, he took advan- 


FAITH, 175 

tage of one of the damsel’s pauses to rise and say, 
as he twisted his lips a little, by way of a bow : 

“With your permission, sefiorita.” 

When he escaped from this trying situation, his 
fiery red countenance expanded, and the universal 
smile of benevolence which served as its principal 
ornament returned to it. His approach to the 
group, where stood Consejero, D. Martin, Osuna, 
and another military gentleman from Lancia, was 
hailed with delight. 

“ I present you,” said D. Martin, to his friend 
from out of town, lowering his voice and casting a 
suspicious glance around him, to make sure that his 
wife could not hear him, “to Father Norberto, a 
priest who can inform you of all the Brands in town, 
if you desire to know any.” 

“Oh! Oh ! D. Martin, for Heaven’s sake!” 

“ Dare to assert that you do not know them ! ” 

“Yes, my good man — I do know of some ” 

“This gentleman devotes himself to young 
women who have gone astray,” continued D. Mar- 
tin, addressing his companion, who smiled in amaze- 
ment. 

“ Heavens! Consider, D. Martin, that this gentle- 
man does not know me ” 

“ It is in order that he may know you that I 
speak.” 

Da. Eloisa cast terrified glances at her husbamd 
from a distance, as she observes the confusion of D. 
Norberto and the laughter of the others. 

“Good,” continued Seftor de las Casas, becoming 
prudent and conciliatory ; “ I will not say that you 


FAITH. 


176 

have any bad ideas, D. Norberto, in going to those 
houses of perdition, but what I shall always main- 
tain is, that you are rendering them a great ser- 

• >> 

vice. 

Da. Eloisa finally rose from her chair and came 
toward them, asking with vexation : 

“ Are not you going to play ombre to-night ? ” 

“ We are, we are,” replied her husband, stifling 
the laugh which was bursting from his body as it 
was from the rest. Consejero, D. Norberto, and he 
seated themselves at the table, and were speedily 
lost to all mundane sounds under the fascinating 
influence of the ace of spades, the deuce of spades, 
and the ace of clubs. A little later, Consejero was 
gnashing his teeth, and pulling his mustache cruelly, 
because he had had the tray of clubs, his personal 
enemy, twice running. For many years he had de- 
clared a war to the death on it. Every time that it 
came into his hands, Consejero became convulsed, 
and swore under his breath like a carter. The tray 
of clubs, evil-intentioned and crafty beyond every 
other card, apparently delighted in seeing him irri- 
tated, and stole by stealth upon him whenever it 
could when the pack was dealt. This antipathy, 
was known not only in this special circle, but all over 
town. Some persons, with due precaution, of course, 
since D. Romualdo was apt to burst out violently 
an'd suddenly, jested with him on this point. On a 
certain occasion, when he was fishing with rod and 
line behind the church, he drew up on his hook a 
card, which proved to be the tray of clubs. He 
entertained no doubt whatever that it had been 


FAITH. 


177 


thrown there intentionally, but he did not say a 
word about it, lest he should be laughed at. 

“ Do you know whom I have just seen entering 
your brother’s house in the company of the vicar?” 
said D. Peregrin, in his snuffling, piercing voice, 
addressing the mistress of the house as he entered. 

Obdulia’s heart gave so vigorous a leap that she 
came near falling to the floor. The others, includ- 
ing Da. Eloisa, raised their heads with curiosity, 

“ Who was it ? ” 

“Your sister-in-law, Joaquina,” screamed rather 
than said, the ex-governor ad interim of Tarragona, 
as though he were announcing the last judgment. 

“ My sister-in-law ! ” exclaimed Da. Eloisa. 

“Your own sister-in-law,” affirmed D. Peregrin, 
with a blast of most disagreeable sound. 

“It cannot be ! ” said Da. Eloise. 

“ It cannot be ! ” exclaimed her husband, suspend- 
ing his game. 

“ It cannot be !” repeated Da. Serafina Barrados. 

The ex-governor of Tarragona emitted from his 
nostrils several noisy snorts, like a locomotive which 
is letting off its superfluous steam, and replied : 

“ Do you think, ladies, that I have no eyes in my 
head ? ” 

This, transcendental query, accompanied by a 
proportionate knitting of the brows, produced con- 
siderable impression on his interrupters. 

“ You may easily have been mistaken,” said the 
veteran. 

“ It is so easy ! ” exclaimed Da. Eloisa. 

“ I saw her as plainly as I see you, only three 


FAITH. 


178 

paces away. I had just been speaking to the sacris- 
tan about the anniversary of my father, when, at 
the turning of the street of the Quadrant, I beheld 
Father Gil and a lady who seemed to me to be a 
stranger. I wished to know who she was, and I 
halted a little near the street lantern, hiding behind 
the jamb of a door. It was Joaquinita, without the 
slightest doubt. I waited a little and then watched 
them until they entered the house of Montesi- 
nos. 

“But do you know her well?” asked Father 
Narciso. 

“ As well as I do you.” 

“ Peregrin, you should remember that you made 
her but one visit in Madrid, and that by night, 
according to what you have told me,” hazarded 
D. Juan timidly. 

The ex-governor hurled at his brother a glance of 
ineffable disdain. 

“ Don’t thrust in youP paw, Juan.” 

“ Peregrin, I do not know why ” 

“Juan!” 

“ Peregrin ! ” 

“ Don’t you meddle! Don’t you meddle! After 
calling on that lady, I saw her a great many other 
times in the street, and bowed to her. Conse- 
quently, I find myself under the sad necessity of 
informing you that what you have just said is an 
impertinence. When I assert, that I know this 
lady, it is because I do know her. I never talk at hap- 
hazard. If I were a frivolous man, without bottom, 
I should not have been able to occupy the positions 


FAITH. 


179 


which I have occupied. Let this serve to govern 
your words.” 

“ Now that I think of it,” remarked Candida, “ I 
saw a blond lady, very elegantly dressed, alight 
from the coach.” 

D. Peregrin shrugged his shoulders with a gesture 
of profound disdain, as much as to say, '‘Why do 
you back me up, and contradict the absurdities of 
this fool ? ” 

This information and this gesture completed the 
annihilation of D. Juan, whose face expressed de- 
jection. But Da. Teodora, with her great serene 
eyes, bent upon him so affectionate a glance that 
the gentleman’s features, contracted with pain, 
gradually expanded, and a placid, melancholy smile 
finally flitted across his lips. On the other hand, 
the brow of D. Peregrin was instantaneously fur- 
rowed with wrinkles. To what purpose was the 
undeniable superiority which he possessed over his 
brother ? The better he demonstrated it in the 
presence of the well preserved spinster, the more 
did she incline to favor the other. The judge of 
the primary court of claims in Tarragona had been 
right, when he said to him that woman was a tissue 
of contradictions. 

Obdulia felt that an intense, infinite joy was en- 
tering her soul in floods. Her body, enervated, in- 
capable of movement, suddenly acquired the 
lightness of a bird. She desired to quit that room 
instantly, and fly through the air, and sing aloud 
her delight. Anyone might have observed the 
change which had taken place in her. Her obstin- 


i8o 


FAITH. 


ate muteness was followed by an excessive loquacity, 
an animated, substanceless chatter, interspersed with 
strange laughs, in which she took pleasure, since they 
eased the emotion which oppressed her, and relaxed 
the strain upon her contracted nerves. She did not 
know what she was saying, neither did Da. Filomena, 
with whom she was talking, being intent upon con- 
templating the intelligent countenance of Father 
Narciso, and enjoying the brilliancy of his humor- 
ous remarks. Soon she felt her throat parched, 
and an unwonted heat in her cheeks. The gentle- 
man from Lancia, who was there, observed it, and 
hastened a remark to Osuna that his daughter’s 
eyes were very black and brilliant, and that the 
scarlet roses, which the heat had brought to her 
face, were very becoming to her. 

The news had produced a sensation in all minds. 
Very few there knew the wife of Montesinos, 
although no one was ignorant of the conjugal drama 
which had driven the* heir back to Penascosa. But 
that which in outsiders was pure curiosity, presented 
itself to the good Da. Eloisa, as was logical, under 
the form of a lively and deep emotion. She wished 
to go out immediately, and learn what was taking 
place in her brother’s house, then she wished that 
hep« husband should go, then she wished to send a 
servant. D. Martin opposed everything, because, 
viewing matters more coolly, he understood that any 
step on their part, at such a moment, would be in- 
opportune. The conversation became extremely 
animated, to such a degree that the ombre players 
stopped their game, and took part in it. The com- 


FAITH. 


i8i 


meats which were made were infinite. They con- 
cocted a thousand hypotheses upon the case. Some 
were of the opinion that the wife had returned re- 
pentant, to beg forgiveness of her husband, others 
that she had made the journey thus alone for the 
purpose of claiming alimony from him, others, that 
her intention was to take preparatory steps for pro- 
curing a divorce, others that the husband had sum- 
moned her, unable to cast out from his heart the 
love which he felt for her (the majority of the femi- 
nine element inclined to this suppositional), others 
that Father Gil, on his own motion, had written to 
Da. Joaquinita, and had prepared the scene, in 
order that D. Alvaro might pardon her, others that 
he had persuaded the latter to summon her to Pefias- 
cosa. There were not lacking some even, who sup- 
posed that D. Alvaro and his wife had been in cor- 
respondence for some time past, and that it was she 
who had been opposed to coming to visit him, until 
the present occasion. 

“ At any rate, what is indisputable is, that Father 
Gil plays a very important part in the matter, and to 
him belongs the glory of the reconciliation,” said D, 
Narciso gravely. 

“If there is one,” retorted Consejero. 

“ There will be,” replied the chaplain. “ There 
will be, and D. Martin here will, perhaps, soon 
have the pleasure of seeing a dear little sister-in 
law, who will distract him with her wiles and 
graces.” 

D. Martin, whose heroic soul did not prevent his 
having a great desire for the inheritance of his 


i 82 


FAITH. 


brother-in-law, who was in feeble health, rumpled up 
his nostrils, and muttered rudely: 

“ I’m not afraid.” 

“ I don’t believe it : I cannot believe it, D. Mar- 
tin. You can do no less than rejoice that the noble 
house of Montesinos is not to become extinct, that 
there will be someone to bear the name honor- 
ably. That great house will soon appear well 
with several children to enliven it with their laugh- 
ter and their shouts. Father Gil’s work is one of 
the most meritorious which he has carried out, and 
he has accomplished some very good things.” 

Obdulia fixed a wrathful glance upon him ; but sud- 
denly softening, she replied with an innocent smile : 

“You have no reason to envy him, D. Narciso. 
Who in town does not remember the numerous 
marriages which have turned out happily, thanks to 
your mediation ? Not to go further, all the world 
knows that D. Feliciano cared very little for Da. 
Nieves, and you see that they are like two turtle- 
doves at the present time.” 

This D. Feliciano was the husband who, according 
to secret rumor, had broken D. Narciso’s leg by 
flinging him downstairs. 

The bystanders exchanged looks of alarm. An 
embarassing silence ensued. Consejero broke into a 
laugh, and exclaimed, as he threw a card on the 
table, as though referring to the game : 

“ That goes, come back for another ! ” 

All understood that the remark was directed at 
Father Narciso, and this augmented the anxiety. 
The ecclesiastic turned red, and muttered : 


FAITH. 183 

Thanks, thanks. We are all under obliga- 
tion.” 

“You go further than obligation requires, fa- 
ther. What you do is, very often, done out of pure 
devotion,” replied Osuna’s daughter, with enchant- 
ing simplicity. 

“ Come on ! ” exclaimed Consejero again, with his 
eyes fixed on the cards. 

“ What is this, D. Romualdo ? ” asked D. Nor- 
berto, with a laugh. “"Have you got the tray of 
clubs?” 

“ Yes, sir ; but I console myself with the thought 
that there are clubs for all.” 

“ But I have none,” replied the innocent priest. 

“ Someone else will get them ! ” 

“ Let us all do what we can ; but there is no 
doubt that some can do more than others. Father 
Gil is a saint, he is an apostle of the early ages of 
the Church. None of us has the presumption to 
compete with him, either in jealous zeal or learn- 
ing,” remarked D. Joaquin, coming to the succor 
of his friend, with a venomous smile, which would 
have made a stone jump. 

“As far as learning is concerned, you may be 
right,” replied Obdulia briskly ; “but as for jealous 
zeal, it seems to me that you are in error. You 
are too modest. I do not wish to flatter you, but 
when it is a question of zeal, I think that you are as 
jealous as anyone, is he not. Da. Serafina? ” 

A grunt in every way remarkable escaped from 
Consejero’s throat at that moment, immediately 
followed by a violent fit of coughing, which left 


FAITH. 


184 

him breathless for several seconds. D. Joaquin 
also felt a certain pricking in his throat, which 
compelled him to cough and turn aside his head. 
Da. Serafina made no reply to the question, for she 
was engaged in talking with Da. Eloisa. 

The conversation changed its course, as though all 
were tacitly agreed that it had become dangerous. 
Shortly afterward, it ceased to be general, and the 
usual small groups were formed again. D. Martin 
was in bad humor, and disputed ov^er every play. 
Da. Eloisa discussed tranquilly. Nothing, however 
surprising it was, ever succeeded in throwing the 
good lady’s nervous system out of order. Her 
interlocutress. Da. Serafina, continued to direct fre- 
quent glances and smiles at her chaplain ; but the 
latter had suddenly become serious and frowning. 
A cloud of sadness flitted across the beautiful and 
passionate soul of the widow also, and her glances 
began to be timid, uneasy, full of mute reproach. 

The doorbell rang. No one noticed it, except the 
mistress of the house and Obdulia, whose face turned 
pale. She fixed her eyes in terror on the door, as 
though an apparition were about to enter to 
her ; her nerves were in tension under a mysteri- 
ous magnetic influence. A minute later the curtain 
was lifted, and the slender figure of Father Gil made 
its appearance. 

All eyes turned toward him with an expression of 
curiosity. The news of Joaquinita’s arrival had up- 
set them all ; they longed to learn what had taken 
place. But before anyone could speak, and before 
the priest had taken a step in the room, Obdulia 


FAITH. 


185 

rose from her seat, advanced precipitately to meet 
him, and fell on her knees at his feet. At the same 
time, she caught his hand and began to imprint upon 
it strong and eager kisses, while her cheeks were 
bathed in tears, and sobs burst from her breast. 
Father Gil tried to tear himself away from these 
demonstrations, but could not. The repentant 
damsel held him fast with her convulsively clasped 
hands. Inexpressibly perturbed, all that he could 
find to say was : 

“Obdulia, calm yourself, calm yourself, calm'your- 
self, for God’s sake ! Rise! Rise, for God’s sake ! ” 
His white, pearly face, was covered with a vivid 
crimson flush. A delicate and mysterious gust of 
emotion ran through the room. Several young 
women blushed. The ecclesiastics exchanged 
glances. Consejero, after casting one mischievous 
look of absolute indifference on the group, turned 
his face to his cards again, and muttered : 

“ The Redeemer and the Magdalen ! ” 

But Obdulia finally released the priest’s hand 
and fell to the floor, seized with a violent nervous 
attack. Then all the ladies rushed at her and 
lavished upon her the customary attentions. For 
similar and identical scenes were of frequent occur- 
rence in this gathering of nervous virgins and mys- 
tical widows. The scent bottles and the flasks 
of antispasm mixtures glittered once more. Then 
the penetrating odor of ether was disseminated 
through the room. 


VIII. 


“The distinction between the appellations, or- 
ganic and inorganic nature, is purely arbitrary. 
Vital force, as it is vulgarly conceived, is a chimera. 
There is nothing special about the matter in which 
life resides. No fundamental element exists in 
organic bodies which is not also to be met with in 
inorganic nature ; the only special thing is the 
movement of this matter. Life is nothing more 
than a particular and more complicated mode of 
mechanics ; a portion of the total matter passes, 
from time to time, from its habitual course into 
other chemical and organic combinations; after it 
has remained in them for a certain period it returns 
to the general movement." 

With profound emotion did Father Gil read these 
and other analogous propositions in a book which 
he had taken from D. Alvaro’s library. After he 
had made a bonfire of the latter’s historical books 
referring to the origins of Christianity, he had not 
even taken in his hand a single book from his 
library. He continued to visit the nobleman from 
time to time, but he avoided all metaphysical con- 
versations. The health of D. Alvaro had visibly 
declined since the arrival and sudden departure of 
his wife. His sadness, his wretched condition, 
inspired the priest with more compassion every day. 

i86 


FAITH. 


187 


The horror which he had formerly felt for him had 
disappeared. Above the religious and philosophical 
differences, above the contrariety of intelligence 
and character, rose vigorously the love for human- 
ity which beat in the profoundly Christian heart of 
the young priest. D. Alvaro was a brother who 
suffered. Before this consideration all the rest 
gives way in souls where the spirit of the divine 
Nazarene has breathed. But D. Alvaro was not the 
diabolical wretch he had imagined during the early 
days of their acquaintance. A demon laughed and 
talked through his mouth at times, cursing God and 
men. At other times, nevertheless, he showed 
himself gentle, affectionate, compassionate, and 
talked with such innocence that it seemed as though 
one were listening to a child. Although he was on 
his guard against him. Father Gil could not help 
feeling more affection for this unhappy man every 
day. 

One morning the two were chatting in the cabinet 
of the tower, which served as chamber and library. 
D. Alvaro had coughed all night long. He was 
fatigued, worn out. After a while he closed his 
eyes and remained dozing in his chair. Father Gil 
thought it better not to wake him to take his leave; 
neither did he dare to depart without having done 
so. In this state of uncertainty he began to turn 
over the leaves of several books, which lay scattered 
over the table. His eyes fell upon one which 
treated of geography, and he perused a few para- 
graphs in an absentminded way. At length his 
reading began to interest him. The author de- 


i88 


FAITH, 


scribed picturesquely some unknown territories, and 
certain very curious phenomena of the sea. Father 
Gil’s knowledge in the natural sciences was of the 
most limited sort. They occupied a very secondary 
place in the seminary at Lancia; only a few insig- 
nificant notions on physics, chemistry, and natural 
history were required of the graduates. Moreover, 
he had always cherished for them a sort of disdain 
inculcated by the rector, his master ; the disdain 
which all ascetics feel toward everything which is 
related to matter. Thus such descriptions came 
upon him as quite fresh. The book was celebrated 
in the scientific world ; he had heard it mentioned, 
but up to this time it had never fallen into his 
hands. It was called “Cosmos”; its author was 
Alexander Humboldt. When D. Alvaro opened his 
eyes at last, and beheld him engaged in reading it, 
he asked him with a smile : 

“Does that book interest you, father?” 

“ Very much.” 

“Take the first volume; that is the second.” 

And rising and pulling it out of one of the book- 
cases, he presented it to the priest. The latter 
hesitated about taking it. 

“ Is it condemned by the Church ? ” 

“ I think not,” replied the grandee with a smile. 
“It is a purely explanatory book, without any pre- 
tensions to polemics.” 

Thus reassured, he carried the first volume home 
with him, and set to reading it eagerly. It began 
with an extremely eloquent description of the 
sidereal world, of the panorama of the celestial 


FAITH. 


189 


grandeurs. The author unraveled with vigorous 
pen the immense mechanism of the bodies which 
revolve in space. Before his astonished vision 
passed worlds on worlds, systems on systems, in the 
endless succession of the starry universes, immense 
spheres rushing in a rapid whirlwind over each 
other, launched at full speed into the desert regions 
of the void. What velocity, eternal God ! A can- 
non ball is a tortoise in comparison with them. 
These spheres, thousands and millions of times 
larger than our earth, travel hundreds of thousands 
of leagues in a day. Beneath the irresistible action 
of colossal forces, mysterious forces, they are hiuled 
through space with the rapidity of the lightning. 
And all of them are worlds, palpitating with life, in 
eternal and marvelous fecundity ; in the very com- 
binations of their movements they find the renova- 
tion of their youth and beauty ; there are as many 
others which are suns, and which disseminate and 
transmit to the worlds which accompany them their 
light and life, as our sun does. In them also rise 
beautiful mountains crowned with snow; the*wind 
breathes through the groves and their landscapes 
are mirrored in their silent lakes ; on their surfaces 
also the intensity of oceans is unfolded, agitated, 
turbulent at times; at other times serene, illu- 
minated by the splendors of the crepuscular glow, 
there also, people suffer, enjoy, struggle, love. 
And all these habitations of space navigate athwart 
the celestial ocean without fear of reefs, of col- 
lisions and tempests, sustained and guided by an 
invisible force which never errs. Beyond these 


FAITH. 


190 

thousands of stars, which we descry by the unaided 
vision, there are hundreds of millions which we per- 
ceive by the aid of the telescope ; beyond these 
hundreds of millions there are other millions of 
millions besides, which rush through the immensity 
with terrific swiftness. What appears to us as a 
white dust, as a light, imperceptible vapor, is a 
nebula; millions of suns as great as, and greater 
than, our own, form it, escorted by a legion of 
planets and satellites which breathe and drink in 
its breath. And this nebula is nothing more than 
a province of the ether. Beyond lie others and 
others still to infinity. 

In the presence of these inconceivable move- 
ments which drag through the infinite deserts 
thousands and thousands of suns; in the presence 
of this colossal cataract, this shower of stars, which 
wheels incessantly through the abysses of space ; in 
the presence of these incommensurable orbits; in 
the presence of these distances and velocities, in 
which the imagination becomes lost, described with 
the firmness of a learned man and the fire of a poet 
by Baron Humboldt, the young priest felt himself 
seized with vertigo. He pressed his hands to his 
temples and remained for a long time with closed 
eyes. When he opened them he perceived that his 
cheeks were wet. Several tears had slipped from 
beneath his eyelashes. 

A profound melancholy invaded his soul. Why? 
Did not all these marvels proclaim the grandeur of 
the Creator? Without doubt; but, in spite of this, 
discouragement suffocated him, like the man who 


FAITH. 


191 

suddenly finds himself lost in the middle of the 
ocean. 

He was accustomed to estimate his insigni- 
ficance in the moral order, his wickedness and 
perverseness compared with the infinite goodness 
of God. But never had he beheld in so evident a 
manner the abjectness and the microscopic character 
of his nature. The earth which we inhabit seemed 
to him a poor, ridiculous sphere, sailing through 
space without being noticed or felt by anyone. 
The wars, the great historical catastrophes and 
transformations which have taken place upon it, 
seemed as despicable and as laughable as the strug- 
gles of the beings which inhabit a drop of water, 
and, what was worse, Jesus Christ, whose figure, 
even in his moments of doubt, had always appeared 
to him lofty, majestic, now presented itself to his 
imagination as a grain of sand ; the history of the 
Redemption as insignificant as the fall of a leaf. 

He tried to penetrate further into the study of 
nature. After the “Cosmos” he read a number of 
books on astronomy, physics, geology. Little by 
little he became accustomed to see in the phenomena 
of nature the result of the activity of the forces in- 
herent in matter. The world might have been 
formed without the intervention of an Intelligence, 
by the action of the natural laws alone. The an- 
cient idea of an intelligent Architect, of a personal 
inspirer of the instincts, became gradually weaker 
in his mind. And when he least suspected it, he be- 
gan to doubt the existence of a personal God sepa^ 
rated from the universe. The act of creation ap- 


192 


FAITH. 


peared to him inconceivable, absurd. On all sides h . 
beheld the action of a constant force, which operate J 
in accordance with fatal laws, not that of a God who 
can work by caprice, whose will is capable of arrejt- 
ing these laws. 

The idea was appalling. Father Gil made desj>er- 
ate efforts to wrench it from his brain, but in vain. 
He fell afresh into that painful state of doubt, in which 
the books of biblical exegesis had left him, only much 
more painful and miserable because he beheld him- 
self launched full on the current of materialism, far 
from the idea of God and of immortality. He did 
battle bravely, trying to represent to himself at all 
hours the sublime truths of religion, the idea of a 
God, father of souls, architect and director of the 
universe, who is offended by our sins, who is soft- 
ened by our supplications and our tears: he clung 
fast to these firm doctrines with all his soul ; 
for one whole day he was united with them in fer- 
vent longing; but when he felt most secure, an im- 
pious, a fatal thought fell upon his brain, and turned 
it upside down. The idea of a personal God sep- 
arated from the universe appeared to him absurd, 
because God would not then be infinite, he would be 
limited by the world ; the belief that our prayers can 
change the course of the laws of nature, seemed an 
old wife’s tale, fit to deceive children ; religion in *thc 
mass, a series of myths, more or less beautiful and in- 
genious, created by the lively but still infantile fancy 
of man. When he thought this. Father Gil tore his 
hair and bit his hands ; he thrust his brow into the 
pillow, to see whether he could not succeed in 


FAITH. 


193 


paralyzing his thought. He had a horror of him- 
self. 

Since the lamentable occurrence which had de- 
prived D. Miguel of the licence to confess and say 
mass, he had stood at the head of the parish. And, 
although the rector was speedily rehabilitated, the 
Bishop did not desire that he should again feed the 
flock of Peftascosa. He_did not deprive him of his 
curacy (this, indeed he could not do), but he gave 
him a coadjutor to discharge its duties. This post 
was entrusted, for the time being, to Father Gil, in 
expectation of a definite nomination. The entire 
weight and responsibility of the cure of souls in 
Peftascosa thus devolved upon our priest, at the 
moment when he most needed that his own soul 
should be cured, lacerated as it was by doubt. The 
labor of watching over the interests of religion, of 
maintaining alive in this town the touch of faith, 
which had always been for him a source of pure de- 
light, became most grievous, and odious to him ; it 
was converted into a torment. By what right did 
he ascend to the pulpit of the Holy Spirit to ex- 
pound the divine word, or listen in the confessional 
to the sins of the believer, or elevate at the altar the 
sacred Host, he who doubted whether the words of 
the Gospel had been pronounced by Jesus or 
not, whether auricular confession was the divine law, 
or an institution created in the interest of the hier_ 
archy, whether the sacrament of the Eucharist con. 
tained a divine truth, or was a reminiscence of the 
symbols and the mysteries of the religions of the 
Orient ? 


194 


FAITH. 


Many an afternoon, oppressed with his own 
thoughts, he left the house and traversed with long 
strides the deserted seashore. The breeze refreshed 
his temples, the sight of the ocean calmed the fever 
of his brain. He seated himself upon a rock washed 
by the waves and remained for whole hours, with 
his ecstatic eyes raised to the horizon. The’ impos- 
ing beauty of this spectacle did not captivate him. 
Neither the roar of the waves, nor their changing 
mantle of opal, silver and sapphire, nor the beautiful 
clouds, crimsoned by the rays of the setting sun, 
ever completely restored serenity to his brow. The 
same grief-stricken furrow still lay across it, the 
same fatal interrogation was ever to be read in it. 
In this eternal agitation of the waves, is there any- 
thing more than a blind force, dashing the atoms 
against each other? Is the beautiful light which is 
reflected on the horizon anything more than a vibra- 
tion of matter ? What mystery does yonder bird, 
which cleaves the air, and darts down into the 
water to seize an unlucky fish and devour it, con- 
ceal within its organism? Am I myself anything 
else than an individual expression of the force which 
animates all the beings in the universe ? 

But the time when these thoughts, always hor- 
rible, distressed him like the cords of the rack, and 
became irresistible, was when he was obliged to exer- 
cise sorne one of the functions of his sacred ministry. 
If one of these black ideas flashed through his spirit 
when he was celebrating the holy sacrifice of the 
mass, or giving absolution to a penitent, he expe- 
rienced the same sensation as though his brain were 


FAITH, 


195 


being seared with red hot iron, he was assailed by 
an anguish which left him paralyzed. He felt as 
though he were dying. He desired it ardently, in 
order that he might escape from this torment. 

One day he was notified to carry the Viaticum to 
a hamlet near the town. As it was necessary to 
traverse the fields for some distance, he went with- 
out his bell, and without convoking the faithful. 
He set out alone, with the sacristan, the bag of the 
corporal suspended from his neck, and in it the 
Sacred Form. The road hugged the sea-shore at 
intervals. Fascinated, as always, by the immensity 
of the ocean, he turned his attention from the in- 
effable mystery which he bore upon his breast, 
ceased to mutter prayers, and yielded up his thoughts 
to the same meditations which had held him in 
their clutches for some time past. The rays of the 
sun, disseminated over the crystal of the waves, im- 
pelled him to consider the supreme, omnipotent 
action of that planet upon terrestrial life. He it 
is who has created it, who supports it, who renews 
it. The flower owes to it its perfume, the wild 
beast its agility and its sanguinary instincts, our 
souls their sweetest or their most terrible impres- 
sions. The sun is the father of all, both of love and 
of hate. Then he reflected that life is nothing more 
than an immense dynamism, in whose womb the 
formidable forces of physics and chemistr)? are 
transmuted. All the beings on earth, men, animals, 
plan s, are intimately bound up together. The life 
of all of them is the same, and this universal life is 
nothing else than an incessant interchange of mat- 


196 


FAITH. 


ter. A universal movement carries along atoms 
with it as it carries worlds. A thousand undula- 
tions cross each other in the atmosphere, a thousand 
forces combine'; heat and light, affinity and magnet- 
ism unite in the mysteries of the vegetable and 
mineral worlds. All beings are constituted of the 
same molecules, which pass successively and indif- 
ferently from one to the other, so that nothing 
belongs to them as absolute property. Our body is 
renewed in such a manner that at the expiration of 
a certain time we no longer possess a single grain 
of the material body which we possessed before. 
This movement of renovation takes place in each 
one of the animals, in every one of the plants. The 
millions of beings who inhabit the surface of the 
globe live in a mutual exchange of organisms. The 
molecule of oxygen which I am breathing to-day 
was breathed yesterday by one of these trees which 
fringe the road. The molecule of carbon which 
burns in one of these little piles of dry leaves, which 
serve to manure the land, may have burned yester- 
day in the lungs of a hero. Perhaps, in one of 
these oyster shells which cling to these rocks lies 
concealed the phosphorus which formed the most 
precious fibers of the brain of Jesus Christ. 

He felt something within him give way and fall. 
He had completely forgotten that he was bearing 
with him the divine body of the Redeemer. It ap- 
peared to him a thing so strange, so entirely outside 
the eternal reality, which he saw and touched, that 
he thought he was dreaming. And without know- 
ing from what dark recesses of his being it came, he 


FAITH. 


197 


was seized upon by a fierce, impious desire to burst 
into a laugh. What comedy was this? A little 
flour kneaded up and baked yesterday by D. 
Miguel’s housekeeper, was transformed by magic 
art into the person of Jesus Christ, into a being 
who disappeared from among the living nineteen 
centuries ago. Were the sovereign, the sublime 
laws of Nature violated, because a few insects on 
this microscopic planet, united in council, decreed 
it? He withdrew his eyes from the sea, and fixed 
them on the sacristan, who was running on in front, 
whistling to his dog, who was chasing some chickens. 
What reverence on the part of this man, who bore 
at his side the God of Heaven, the Creator of all 
things ! And the laugh surged up in his breast, 
ever more and more impetuously. It reached his 
throat, touched his lips, was on the point of 
breaking forth. A strange trembling made his 
teeth chatter ; he felt his brow bathed in cold 
perspiration ; his sight suddenly grew dim, and he 
fell senseless to the earth. When he recovered his 
• reason, he was reclining in the arms of the sacristan 
and two laborers, who had chanced to be passing. 
They had bathed his face with cold water, opened 
his cassock, and removed his collar. One of them 
puffed the smoke of a cigar into his nostrils. The 
bag of the corporal, with the body of the divine 
Redeemer, lay on the wall of a field. Father Gil 
made haste to pick it up, hung it once more round 
his neck, and after praying for a moment, as he 
knelt, he pursued his road, without taking his eyes 
from the ground. 


IX. 


D. Miguel had been his confessor until his 
license had been withdrawn. They confessed to 
each other mutually, as happens among priests. 
It was to him that h«e first communicated his 
doubts. That whimsical old persan had been 
more surprised than shocked by them. They 
seemed to him so unsubstantial a thing that they 
did not deserve to have the attention fixed upon 
them very long. For him, dogmas were like the 
physical laws of gravity, impenetrability, etcetera. 
He took them into account without thinking of 
their existence. The rector of Peftascosa, in the 
bottom of his heart, regarded the whole touching 
drama of the passion and death of Jesus as a sort 
of romanticism which serves as an obligatory accom- 
paniment to the [true religion. This consisted in 
the mass, the responses, the prayer of the day, the 
rosary, abstinence from flesh on fast days, and, 
above all, in the parochial taxes, which he probably 
considered as coeval with the act of Creation. Con- 
sequently, he did not pause to analyze and remove 
the doubts of his vicar. “ Go ahead — Pay no atten- 
tion — Nonsense! — Let it alone — Til give it to you ! 
— Why shouldn’t he have risen on the third day, you 
dolt? Don’t you see what Saint John and Saint 
Matthew and Saint Mark say?” Such were ordi- 

iq8 


FAITH. 


199 


narily the consolations which he lavished upon him. 
They sometimes saddened our priest, but at other 
times he took comfort in thinking that he could not 
be so damned and accursed if D. Miguel took his 
terrible doubts with such calm. When the latter 
was deprived of his licenses, there was no help for 
it; he was obliged to seek another confessor. Con- 
vinced of the hostility with which he was regarded by 
D. Narciso, D. Melchor, and D. Joaquin, he did not 
wish to unbosom his conscience to any one of them, 
although he was well aware that, in the confessional, 
likes and dislikes have nothing to do with the 
matter. He betook himself to a young chaplain, 
even younger than himself, who had recently arrived 
from the seminary. He was the son of a carpenter 
of the town, so timid and humble that he hardly 
knew how to salute, happy at seeing himself ele- 
vated above his former rank of life, paying an unlim- 
ited respect to all the great powers of Heaven, and 
to all the petty powers of the earth. This man was 
deeply impressed by Father Gil’s confession, and 
immediately undertook to convince him that all 
this proceeded from the devil, and that there was 
no remedy for it but to subject himself to penance 
and scourge himself well, pray and fast much. 
Through a spirit of humility and obedience, the 
vicar did what his confessor enjoined upon him, 
secretly persuaded, nevertheless, that it would be to 
no avail. He had already had recourse to these 
means, without result. Doubts continued to tor- 
ment him; they presented themselves constantly, 
more cruel, more despotic. The timid chaplain 


200 


FAITH. 


underwent a very bitter experience every time that 
he confessed to him ; he trembled and grew terrified, 
as though a misfortune were happening to him ; he 
suffered so much, and was assailed by such fears, of 
what he knew not, that he gradually excused him- 
self from receiving the father’s confession, and 
wound up by positively refusing to hear it. 

Then it occurred to him that he would go to see 
D. Restitute, the rector of one of the villages close 
to Peftascosa, who passed among his colleagues for 
a wise, prudent man and much attached to his 
books. It was said that he had a large library, and 
that in his youth he had passed a brilliant exami- 
nation for one of the canonries in Lancia, and that it 
had not been given to him because the Bishop was 
holding it in reserve for a nephew of his own. Don 
Restituto, wounded by the injustice, had retired to 
this rural cure, and had never since been willing to 
quit it and enter upon a fresh competition. Whether 
he continued to be devoted to the study of theol- 
ogy, and vented upon it the disappointment which 
he had undergone, is not known with certainty. 
He took a pleasure, when some festival or funeral 
brought him in contact with his colleagues, in dis-' 
playing his erudition, and in exceeding them in the 
wit and subtlety with which he defended any prop- 
osition ; but the priests of all the neighboring par- 
ishes were Moralists; that is to say, not one of them 
except himself had studied the full course of theol- 
ogy. There was little glory in overthrowing them 
in a dinner-table dispute. For the rest,'D. Resti- 
tuto carried on so much husbandry, and was so much 


FAITH 


201 


interested in it, that he could not have had much 
time or much disposition to delve deeply in the 
Dogmatica or the Patrology. 

Our distressed priest set out one afternoon, after 
dinner, and directed his steps toward the village in 
which this theologian resided. He knew him tol- 
erably well, but was not on terms of intimacy with 
him. The village lay about half a league distant. 
The road was varied and picturesque ; narrow lanes, 
with high hedges of brambles, clumps of trees, 
paths among the fields of maize and footpaths 
across the meadows. At the entrance to a narrow 
pass, above a plain of maize, and with some deli- 
cious pasture land in the background, stood the prin- 
cipal houses of the parish. The church and the 
rectory lay a good ways farther on in a damp and 
gloomy defile. Everything was slumbering in the 
most complete silence when the young priest ar- 
rived. The hens were pecking in the street in front 
of the house; a short-tailed tomcat was washing his 
face, as he sat on the garden wall, and a crop-eared 
mastiff was sleeping, nose downward, on the plat- 
form of the raised granary near the house. This 
mastiff was charged with breaking the peace of the 
house by rising in wrath against strangers, barking 
with a hoarse, extinguished cry, which bore witness 
to his decrepitude. Father Gil halted, and began 
to say in a gentle and persuasive tone: • 

“ Good fellow ! good fellow ! ” 

The mastiff, seeing that the newcomer was mak- 
ing himself small, swelled horribly. Giiau ! Guan ! 
he shrieked, choosing the most ferocious and intim- 


202 


FAITH. 


idating register which he could find in his chest. 
At the same time he riveted a glare of extermina- 
tion on the priest, and advanced, although with a 
certain caution, toward him. The latter, terrified 
by these savage barks, retreated three or four paces 
and extended his arm with his umbrella, which he 
had brought to protect him against the sun. “ Um- 
brellas ! the resource of cowards ! ” must have been 
the mastiff’s thought. And he became so boister- 
ous in the face of this last outrage that it would 
have gone ill with the priest had not an old w'^man 
emerged from the door cackling: 

“ Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! Here, Cuckoo ! Get away, 
Cuckoo! Cursed dog! Here! Here! Come here ! ” 

The dog hesitated for a moment, stopped barking, 
and displayed with tolerable clearness a resolution 
to return to his slumbers as though nothing had oc- 
curred ; but the old woman would not be satisfied, 
she exacted an act of submission. 

“ Here, Cuckoo! here this very minute ! ” 

Cuckoo dropped his head humbly, and set out 
toward her with a slow, extremely painful gait, as 
though the road were bristling with perils. 

‘‘ Here! Come here, sir ! ” 

“She calls me ‘ sir,’ poor little thing ! ” said the 
dog to himself : pomps and vanities produced no 
effect on him. And he advanced with still greater 
precautions, making sure of his footing at every 
step, and wagging his tail in a dizzy manner. 

“Here! here!” the old woman continued to 
scream. 

Finally, at the maximum velocity of six paces a 


FAITH. 


203 


minute, Cuckoo arrived at his destination. The old 
woman grasped him by the part of his ear which re- 
mained, and gave it three or four vigorous tugs. 
The dog gave vent to a howl of pain. Then she 
seized the other ear and administered a like number 
of tugs to it. A still sadder howl. Having paid his 
dues to earthly justice, the mastiff retreated once 
more to the platform of the granary, not without 
launching a few imprecations and blasphemies in a 
low voice. This scene was repeated several times 
in the day, whenever, as on the present occasion, 
any suspicious person arrived at the rectory with 
hostile intentions. Cuckoo deplored in his inmost 
soul that they had not cropped his ears more 
thoroughly. . 

“Good afternoon, D. Gil!” said the old woman, 
suddenly exchanging her wrathful expression for a 
smile, of the most honeyed description, showing 
that she recognized him. 

Father Gil, who did not know her, responded 
very courteously, and inquired for D. Restituto. 

“ The Seiior Cura must be in the stable. Step in, 
D. Gil ; I will go and call him.” 

“There is no necessity; I will go in search of him 
myself. Is the stable in this direction ?” 

“ Yes, sefior ; yonder, behind the house.” 

Passing entirely round it, the priest ascended a 
a few paces in a narrow, dirty lane, and came upon 
an extremely wretched building made of stones 
from the river, barely hewn, with a broken door. 
The door was shut, and he saw no one beyond. He 
was on the point of leaving this spot and returning 


204 


FAITH. 


to the house, when he heard a sound of voices pro- 
ceeding from beyond the stable. He went thither, 
and found D. Restituto, in fact, and was not a little 
surprised at the costume and situation in which he 
discovered him. 

The old rector had on a pair of voluminous cordu- 
roy trousers, with patches, such as the peasants in 
those parts wear ; on his feet he wore wooden shoes, 
with socks of coarse wool ; a jacket lustrous with 
use, and a shirt of linen of his housekeeper’s weav- 
ing, without either collar or anything to take its 
place. It was the costume of a day-laborer, with 
no additions or omissions. But that which ren- 
dered his accouterment really uncouth and slovenly, 
was that on his head he wore an old and greasy 
cap. 

Father Gil halted in amazement at this figure, 
and was still more amazed when he observed the 
occupation in which the rector was engaged. With 
one knee resting on the ground, he was flaying a 
yearling calf. His servant was aiding him in this 
operation. The animal lay outstretched between 
the two, the greater part of it already with flesh 
laid bare. D. Restituto turned his head at the 
sound of footsteps, and finding himself in the pres- 
ence of his young colleague, he rose to his feet and 
came toward him, grasping an enormous knife in 
his bloody hands. 

“ What miracle is this, friend ? The future rector 
of Peftascosa deigns to pay us a visit ! Look here, 

I shall not offer thee my hand, because thou, seest 
the condition in which it is. Thou art in good 


FAITH. 


205 


health, art thou not ? There is no news here, 
either.” D. Restitute addressed all ecclesiastics 
younger than himself as thou, from the very first 
interview. When Gil had explained to him the 
motive of his visit, he exhibited a certain degree of 
surprise, but made haste to reply : 

“ Good, good, I shall be done directly. Go to the 
house and wait for me.” 

But the young man expressed a desire to go to 
the church. 

“ To the church?” said the other in surprise. It 
was their custom to confess to each other at home. 

“Very well. There is no objection. Ask my 
housekeeper for the key, and wait for me there. I 
shall not be long.” 

Would to God that he had delayed longer. And, 
above all, would that he had taken time to wash 
himself thoroughly. For the theolgian exhaled an 
odor of the slaughterhouse which was perfectly 
overwhelming. During the entire time that the con- 
fession lasted, and it lasted a tolerably long time, 
Father Gil could think of hardly anything else. He 
felt suffocated by that nauseating smell ; he was 
attacked several times by pangs and perspirations 
which came near depriving him of consciousness. 
D. Restituto experienced real satisfaction at being 
able to fetch out his entire ancient battery of theo- 
logical propositions. He answered every doubt which 
his afflicted penitent presented to him, with a Latin 
text. As the veteran takes his arms from their nail, 
with delight at the signal for war, so the former 
opposer of the prebendary of Lancia took down 


2o6 


FAITH. 


from their nail the already musty texts of Perronne 
and Balmes. How doubt the immortality of the 
soul, when it is a simple thing, and simple things can- 
not be decomposed ? Who dares imagine that the 
Catholic Church can perish some day, when the words 
of Jesus Christ are bleeding here : “ The gates of hell 
shall not prevail {iion prcevalebunt)" } How can one 
give more credit to the word of man than to that 
of God ? Has not Divine Wisdom said : “For this 
was I born, and for this came I into the world to 
bear witness to the truth ” ? And is not this testi- 
mony very clear, and very patent, in all the visible 
works which exceed natural power; for example, in 
the healing of the sick, in the resurrection of the 
dead, and in other admirable miracles performed by 
Our Lord Jesus Christ, and by the Holy Apostles? 

Father Gil received absolution, promising to be no 
moreinfatuated and idiotic ; that was D. Restituto’s 
judgment of a man who doubted the truths re- 
vealed by angelical ministration. Shortly after kiss- 
ing that hand, not thoroughly cleansed from the 
blood of the calf, and when he had risen to pray his 
penance before an altar, our priest felt ill. He was 
obliged to quit the church immediately, being seized 
with violent nausea. In the portico he threw up 
the whole of his dinner. The rector led him to his 
house, and wished to doctor him with a cup of sage 
tea, a supreme remedy which he employed against 
all the ills which afflict the human race ; but his 
young colleague, who knew well the cause of his ill- 
ness, obstinately refused all remedies. Then the 
rector proceeded to show him his kitchen garden. 


FAITH. 


207 


in which he felt as much pride as in the profundity 
of his theological acquirements. It was full of fruit 
trees and vegetables. Not a flower, not an ornamen- 
tal bush was to been seen. Then they passed on to 
a vast meadow, where several workmen were engaged 
in building a wall. D. Restitute began to give them 
instructions, expressed approbation of some things 
and disapprobation of others, completely forgetting 
his guest. One of the men informed him that the 
mill was stopped because Cosme’s son had turned 
aside the water higher up, for the purpose of drying 
up the drain of the rivulet to fish for eels. D. Resti- 
tute flew into a fury, and announced his intention of 
summoning Cosme and demanding indemnity for 
damages and grievance. No one should trifle with 
him ; he was resolved to make people respect his 
property. From here they went to the cornfields, 
and the rector showed to his colleague, with extreme 
delight, the magnificent state of the plants. The 
rain had come just at the right time, but they owed 
still more to the great quantity of manure which had 
been applied to them than to the rain. 

“Thou wilt say: ‘where can D. Restitute get so 
much manure from a property like this, of only a 
fortnight’s labor for a yoke of oxen ? I will explain 
it to thee. Although I have nine head of cattle, I 
could not manure the half of the land which I own. 
Here is where the intellectiis comes in ! In all 
parishes, as thou art well aware, there are always a 
lot of poverty stricken folks, from whom it is impos- 
sible to wring a single cuarte, either for baptisms, 
marriages, or anything else. Well, I compel these 


2o8 


FAITH, 


living calamities to deposit from time to time, in 
front of their houses (to express it vulgarly, their hog- 
styes), a good quantity of dry leaves or whin. What 
with the rain, and the treading of the passersby, and 
the dung of the cattle which cross it, it is converted 
into compost at the expiration of a certain time. 
When it is well rotted, they bring it to me, and I 
keep on making a heap of it, until the season for 
distributing it over the land arrives. What dost thou 
think of that ? ” 

They went next to a cultivated meadow. As soon 
as D. Restituto found himself in it, he gave vent to 
a sharp, jeering laugh, which caused his young col- 
league to raise his head and gaze at him with 
curiosity. 

“This is the Lower mill meadow; thou alreac^y 
knowest about the Lower mill meadow. What ? 
Thou dost not know the history of this meadow ? 
It circulated pretty widely in the town. It be- 
longed to the parish cattle, and escaped notice when 
they were all sold. I took possession of it, and not 
a soul in the parish dared to denounce the deed. 
But there was a wealthy tavern keeper here, named 
Lino (who went to pieces last year, thank God), and 
this Lino had a great mind for the meadow. At last 
he gave a hint to the administration, on the sly, be- 
cause he did not wish to get into my bad books, and 
they had it sold at judicial auction. Two days be- 
fore they did this, he came here in a very hypocriti- 
cal way, and said to me : ‘ Senor Rector, I am going to 
make a bid on the Lower mill meadow, but if you 
desire it, I will remain at home.’ The cunning dog 


FAITH, 


209 


wanted to pump me as to how much I thought of 
offering. ‘ No, no, I do not desire it ; you may bid 
it off if you please,’ I answered. The man, seeing 
that I was not going to the auction, and knowing 
that none of the neighbors was in a position to buy 
it, counted on getting it very cheap. And I sent to 
Lancia, to a first cousin of his. But I went to meet 
him in Pefiascosa, and talked to him very much to 
the point, representing to him the sin that he would 
commit in bidding for the property of the Church, 
promised to lease him the meadow, and placed forty 
duros in his hand. What was the man to do ? He 
went to Lancia, bid in the property, and handed it 
over to me in perpetuity. What a laugh went up in 
the town ! My friend Lino fell ill with rage, and as 
soon as an opportunity presented itself, which was at 
the expiration of two months, as they were returning 
from a festival, he stabbed his cousin. But, go to, 
what a pile of good cuartos that stab cost him ! He 
did not make it good with ten thousand reales.” 

As the sun was sinking low, after showing him a 
cider-press which he had just built, D. Restitute con- 
ducted his pentitent to his hguse once more, and in- 
vited him to take a cup of chocolate. But the vicar 
did not feel thoroughly well. Moreover, he was. in 
haste. He refused all refreshment, and set out on 
the road to Pefiascosa. The rector accompanied him 
a good stretch on the way. 

Having now quitted his property, and divining 
from the pensive mien of the vicar of Peftascosa that 
his mind was still burdened with serious thoughts, 
D. Restituto tried to return to the charge, although 


210 


FA/T/r. 


it appeared to him more than amply demonstrated 
that all his colleague’s doubts were nothing more 
than soap bubbles, which could be dispersed with 
any breath which Sacred Theology might apply. 

“ Thou shouldst settle it in thine own mind, my 
dear fellow,” he said to him, with unlimited patron- 
age, “ that the truths of faith are not contrary to rea- 
son, but that they stand above reason. What is the 
contrary of the true ? Falsehood, is it not? The 
false, is it not ? And how can we hold as false that 
which has been divinely confirmed? The things 
which we know by divine revelation cannot be con- 
trary to natural knowledge because natural knowl- 
edge also comes from God, since God is the author of 
our nature. Because a thing surpasses reason, it 
should not be considered contrary to it. Thus says 
Saint Augustine, that that which is demonstrated as 
truth by the holy books, be it of the Old or of the 
New Testament, can in no way be contrary to it. 
The human understanding cannot arrive, in a natural 
manner, at knowledge of the existence of God, sup- 
posing that our intelligence in the mode of the pres- 
ent life begins our knowledge by the senses, and that, 
consequently, those things which do not fall within 
the limits of the senses cannot be perceived except 
in so far as the senses can deduce their knowledge.” 

The evening was cool and mild. The country 
lay outspread beneath the transparent sky, reflect- 
ing in tones of green, pale and yellowish, the rays of 
the setting sun. The sea lay, an azure blot, in the 
distance. The two ecclesiastics had already tra- 
versed the principal group of habitations, where the 


FAITH. 


^II 

women, as they sat at the doors of their houses, 
wished them good-evening, and the children ran up 
to kiss their hands. They had reached the slightly 
undulating open fields, which characterize the coast 
of this province. Father Gil walked on in silence, 
with drooping head, which he raised from time to 
time, to direct his vague, roving glance at the dis- 
tant horizon, at the red soil, and the bare rocks which 
festooned the seashore. The setting sun gave forth 
its last flames, which reddened one part of the hori- 
zon. And from that quarter came a light breeze, 
which flushed his fingers and the tip of his nose, 
invigorating his muscles and producing a tickling in 
his eyes. The landscape, all ready to fall asleep, ex- 
haled a sigh of comfort, a confused mingling of 
voices and bellowings, a squeaking of carts, a jin- 
gling of cattle bells, and a roar of waves, all melting 
together and harmonizing in the amplitude of the 
limitless plain. Father Gil forced himself to pay 
attention to the arguments which his elderly col- 
league kept pouring forth in a deep and solemn 
voice. They were the same which he had heard for 
seven years from the professors’ chairs of the semi- 
nary at Lancia. 

As they left the path and entered a narrow lane, 
they beheld a herd of cattle advancing slowly to 
meet them. D. Restitute broke off his theological 
discourse, and raised his hand to his eyes by way of 
a screen. 

They are my cows,” he said in a low tone. 

And before they reached them, he began to shout 
at the man who was driving them : 


212 


FAITH. 


“ What’s the matter with the gray, that she is 
limping? ” 

She must have got a thorn in her foot.” 

“Then, as soon as thou comest to the barnyard, 
examine it well, and take it out, dost thou hear? 
She’s the best cow I own ” — he added under his 
breath, turning to his companion. 

And, as they were now in the middle of the cattle, 
the rector approached the gray, in an anxious, pater- 
nal manner, and began to caress her poll, at the same 
time lowering his head to inspect her feet. 

“ Zh, Gray, to, to! stand still! stand still! It 
must be a thorn, for I can see nothing in her feet. 
After thou hast extracted it, wash the foot well, with 
a little wine and rosemary. Tell Teresa to pre- 
pare it for thee. She was born and reared at 
home, thou knowest ? ” he continued, turning to the 
vicar with a softened countenance. “ D. Jovino, thy 
parishioner, offered me sixty duros for her. Not if 
he were to give me eighty ! This jewel shall not 
leave my house. What breadth of breast, eh ? 
What hind quarters ? ” (and he caressed them 
gently with the palm of his hand). “ She does not 
give much milk, but it is pure butter. This other 
was born on my place also. Quiet, Cherry, be 
quiet ! She is more stupid than the other. But she’s 
a good cow all the same. She dropped her first calf 
only a fortnight ago. She is fairly running away in 
milk. Look, look, what teats ! She can hardly 
walk for their weight ! Each jet as thick as your 
finger. See, see. Stand still, Cherry ! ” 

And stooping down, he squeezed one of the ani- 


FAITH. 


213 


mal’s teats, and made two or three jets of milk flow 
out, which moistened the earth. At the same time, 
he turned his face, flushed to congestion as much by 
his attitude as by delight, toward the young vicar. 
The latter smiled out of politeness, but immediately 
turned away his eyes, not being well able to repress 
the repugnance which he felt. 

The herd set out once more on the march, and 
they did likewise. D. Restitute picked up the 
thread of his discourse again. 

“ I know there are people who say that it cannot 
be demonstrated by the reason that God exists, and 
that this can be obtained by faith and revelation 
alone. The grossest sort of error. The falseness of 
this opinion is made manifest by the art of demon- 
stration, which deduces the causes from the effects, 
and by the very order of the sciences, since if there 
is no cognoscible substance outside of that which is 
perceptible to the senses there will be no supernat- 
ural science, as is said in quarto metaphysicormn, A 
distinction must be made between what is known 
in per se simp licit e r and what is known quoad nos. 
Simpliciter that God is by himself, is known ’’ 

D. Restituto was possessed of a most happy 
memory. After the expiration of all these years 
he recalled his Dogmatica perfectly, recited a Castil- 
ian translation of it with as much emphasis as though 
he had invented it. Father Gil remembered it afso, 
for it was a more recent experience with him, but he 
listened attentively, through humility, forcing him- 
self to admire the force of the arguments, to consider 
them irrefutable. The old theologian frequently 


214 


FAITH. 


paused, hesitated over some forgotten demonstration, 
but suddenly took flight and launched himself vigor- 
ously on the premises, compelling them to instantly 
exude the conclusions desired. 

“ Everything which moves is moved by some- 
thing. That which moves is moved or it is not 
moved. If it does not move itself, then we have 
what we seek, an immovable motive power, and this 
is called God. If it does move itself, it is because 
something moves it, and then, it must go on thus 
to all infinity, or we must arrive at some immovable 
motive power; but, in the order of motion, there can- 
not be any infinite process, ergo, we must suppose 
a primary immovable motive power. We will now 
prove that all movement is determined by something. 
If anything moves itself, it is necessary that it should 
contain within itself the principle of its motion.” 

They were walking along a narrow path, opened 
between the maize fields. The theologian was in 
front. Father Gil behind. All at once, the former 
stopped his tongue and his feet firmly. As they 
turned a corner, they came face to face with Cosme’s 
son, who bore On his shoulder a basket half filled 
with eels. To catch sight of him and to fling him- 
self unmercifully upon him was but one action for 
the theologian. 

“Scoundrel! greatest of dogs! So it was thou 
who cut off my water from the mill? I’ll flay thee 
alive! Is it thy father who put thee up to these 
rascalities ? Is it the master who teachest them to 
thee? Shameless, cynical fellow ! ” 

He held him firmly clutched by both ears, and, at 


FAITH. 


215 


each question, he gave him a hearty shake. The 
little lad, comprehending that these queries had a 
purely rhetorical object, and required no answer, 
confined himself to uttering inarticulate howls of 
pain. “Come hither, you vagabond ! I’ll hale you 
before your father ! I’ll see whether you’ll tell me 
now that I bear an ill-will toward you. You’ll 
wind up in jail ! Come here, come along ! ” 

And, as it was not easy to drag him by his ears, the 
former theologian decided, though with profound 
grief, to release one of them, instantly communicat- 
ing to the other its share of the pressure. ':hat nothing 
might be wasted. In this forrri, his face flushed, his 
eyes flaming with wrath, he turned back toward the 
village, without taking leave of his companion, carry- 
ing the lad half suspended in the air, while the lat- 
ter uttered pitiful shrieks. 

Father Gil stared at him in stupefaction until he 
vanished from sight. He remained a few moments 
longer motionless, abstracted. Then he resumed 
his way, which led nearer and nearer the seashore, 
descending by a gentle incline to Pefiascosa. The 
light disappeared moment by moment. The chill 
increased. The ocean, becalmed, had lost its beau- 
tiful azure hue, exchanging it for gray with steely 
reflections. From time to time, an icy gust sent a 
shiver across the polished surface of the waters, 
which ruffled them slightly and momentarily, as 
though the sea had goose-flesh rise on it. And this 
shiver communicated itself to the young priest, and 
penetrated to the depths of his being. What he 
felt in his soul was neither grief nor agitation, nor 


2i6 


FAITH. 


anguish; it was simply a mortal chill, which gnawed 
his bones. He had never beheld himself so solitary 
and helpless. His eyes continued to be fixed obsti- 
nately on the ground. He dared not lift them and 
interrogate the immensity, as he had done on other 
occasions. He was sure of its reply, and he feared it. 

When he reached the first houses of the Gusanera 
suburb, night had already fallen. As he passed in 
front of one of thg poorest and dirtiest of them, a 
sound of blows and shrieks proceeding from within 
attracted his attention. He halted in terror, and 
tried to make out what it meant. All that he could 
see through the small, lighted windows, was several 
shadows in violent agitation. Various oaths which 
made him quake reached his ears, amid the confuse.d 
uproar. Suddenly the door opened with violence, 
and a black mass emerged precipitately, propelled by 
hands which instantly closed the door again. In 
this black mass Father Gil recognized a priest. He 
approached with anxiety, and saw that it was 
Father'Norberto, with his cloak but without his hat. 

“ D. Norberto ! What is this ? What is going 
on?” 

“Hallo, my dear fellow. Nothing, nothing, it is 
nothing,” he replied without perturbation. 

“ Yes, something is going on. What have they 
been doing to you in this house? ” 

“ Nothing, nothing. Let us go ; people are as- 
sembling.” 

“ Are you going off without your hat? ” • 

“That is true. I will go ask for it. Wait a 
bit.” 


FAITH, 


217 


But at that moment the hat was thrown from one 
of the windows of the house, and flew through the 
air, landing in the middle of the highway, that is to 
say, near the two ecclesiastics. At the same time, a 
roligh voice said, accompanying its remarks with 
various interjections : 

“Take your tile, thief. If you come here again, 
you will depart without your ears.” 

Father Norberto made haste to pick up his hat 
from the ground, and walked away. 

“ But explain to me,”3aid the coadjutor, rejoining 
him, and endeavoring to keep pace with him. 

“ I will explain it. But further away.” 

When they had left the Gusanera behind them, 
had passed the Square and entered the street of the 
Quadrant, D. Norberto slackened his steps a little. 
The vicar profited by the opportunity to insist upon 
his questions. 

“ Come, what has happened to you? ” 

“ Why, you see in that house lives a young girl, a 
child barely fifteen years of age, whose mother has 
given her over to that huckster known as Pepe of 
Mancha.” 

“And you went thither to see whether you could 
not rescue her from his clutches ? ” 

“ I had already seen her twice, and she seemed 
not ill-disposed iri the matter ; but someone, I know 
not who, gave the man a hint, and to-day he sud- 
denly presented himself and set up a hubbub.” 

“Jesus! And are you wounded?” exclaimed 
Father Gil, perceiving a few drops of blood trickling 
down the cheeks of his companion. At the same 


2i8 


FAITH. 


time, he raised the latter’s hat, and saw that he had 
received a forcible blow on the brow, whence the 
blood was starting. 

“ But this is an indignity ! Let us go and inform 
the judge.” 

“Do not think of such a thing, my dear fellow. 
It is of no consequence. A complaint would ruin 
everything; there would be a scandal, and the girl, 
seeing that she was lost, would leave the town with 
that fellow. If she remains here, I have some hope 
of making her quit that devil, by degrees, and reduc- 
ing her mother to submission. This is nothing,” he 
added, wiping away the blood with his handkerchief. 

“ What pains me rather more is that man ” 

“ But did he deal you other blows ? ” 

“ He gave me a sort of a flogging,” the other re- 
plied with a candid laugh. “ It is only a question of 
arnica and rest. I think nothing will come of it. 
He was too cowardly. For some time past I have 
been invited to eat tripe every day. I am getting 
too fat, don’t you think so ? ” 

Father Gil bade him farewell at the door of his 
house, and pursued his way, with a lighter step, 
to his own. It seemed as though he had been re- 
lieved of the burden which weighed him down. He 
felt that the deep melancholy which had oppressed 
him all the way was mitigated, and that a sweet, in- 
explicable vibration of well-being coursed through 
his being. 

After interrogating dumb nature, after consulting 
decrepit theology, the breath of Jesus had, at last, 
passed through his soul and refreshed it. 


X. 


Two months later Father Gil was seated in his 
wretched armchair of guttapercha, and resting. The 
toil of all those days, especially of the last day, had 
conquered him. It was purely material toil, in 
which his mind, saddened by impious and horrible 
thoughts, took pleasure ; he had sought a sedative 
for the inward agitation which tormented him. It was 
a question of laying the corner stone of the new tem- 
ple, with a grand religious and civil ceremony. The 
erection of this temple had been, for long years, the 
golden dream of the pious inhabitants of Peflascosa. 
It had always stumbled over insuperable obstacles. 
On the one hand, money, on the other, the ill-will of 
the rector, who opposed a stubborn resistance to the 
project, had caused it to suffer shipwreck repeatedly. 
But when Gil was given charge of the parish, he took 
up this subject warmly; he convoked the richest in- 
habitants of the town, and opened a subscription, 
which produced good results ; he managed to get 
a large subvention from the city council ; he went 
to Lancia, and interested the prelate and the various 
grandees, who promised him their concurrence. At 
last, after much labor and journeying to and fro, the 
new church became a fact. The first stone was to 
be laid on the 24th of January, in the presence 
of the bishop, the governor, various dignitaries 


219 


220 


FAITH. 


of the cathedral church of Lancia, and many notable 
persons of the province. We have now arrived at 
the 23d. The burden of the preparations had 
fallen on the shoulders of Father Gil, who, aided 
by persons of good-will who lent themselves to it, 
had organized not only the religious festival, but 
also a part of the civil show, the illumination, the 
bonfires, and the ceremony of laying the corner 
stone. 

During these last days he had had no time to think. 
He had been less unhappy. But his strength was 
exhausted by such a petty and annoying occupation, 
and he was enjoying the luxury of a brief moment 
of repose, while awaiting the rush of the following 
day. His eyelids were already closing softly, when 
the door opened violently, causing him to give a 
start in his chair. Speechless with surprise, with 
eyes unnaturally wide open, he saw Obdulia enter 
like a hurricane, and advance toward him, with dis- 
composed countenance and displaying her wrath and 
agitation. 

“ Do you know what is going on, father?” she 
asked, without saluting him. 

The coadjutor made no reply, and interrogated 
her only with his face. 

I have just learned that the post of coadjutor 
has been snatched away from you. It has been 
given to D. Narciso.” 

Is that all?” replied the still surprised priest. 

“ And does that seem a small matter to you ? ” 
she exclaimed impetuously. “After you have 
worked in this town, after you have put everything 


FAITH. 


221 


in order, after you have succeeded in getting the 
church built, for it is due to you exclusively, every- 
one knows that. To take from you that which be- 
longs to you, and give it to D. Narciso! It is an 
infamy ! it is despicable ! How well those envious 
people have managed their intrigue ! It had already 
struck me, that so much traveling to Lancia signi- 
fied something ! Of course, I know very well who 
has helped him. I believe I know ! Da. Filo- 
mena is first cousin to the Governor of Madrid, and 
the affair comes from that quarter. And what shall 
we say of the bishop who, knowing the services 
which you have rendered to religion in this town, 
lends himself to serve as a plaything to a girlish old 
woman ? What an indignity ! Did not I warn you 
in season to be very vigilant ? Ah, what a vast in- 
famy ! What an infamy ! What an unparalleled 
infamy ! ” 

She spoke tumultuously, with burning cheeks, 
darting rays of wrath from her eyes, waving her 
trembling hands, moving her whole slender body as 
though she were subjected to a strong current of 
electricity. Father Gil gazed at her in amazement, 
stupefied. Finally, taking advantage of a momentary 
vacillation, before she launched forth afresh, and gave 
vent to another string of affronts, he attacked her 
with the words : 

“ I thank you greatly, my daughter, for the inter- 
est which you exhibit in what you believe to be an in- 
justice toward me, but which is not so. I have 
never desired that post nor have I ever done any- 
thing to deserve it. The person to whom it is en- 


222 


FAITH. 


trusted, if what you tell me is true, seems to me 
most worthy and possesses, among other advantages 
over me, that of priority. But above all, if an in- 
justice had really been committed against me, what 
end does this tumult serve ? To what end serve 
these insults to respectable persons, to whom the 
idea of doing me harm has never occurred ? ” 

Obdulia flushed a deep crimson, and stammered 
out : 

“ Because you are a saint.” 

A saint, forsooth ? ” exclaimed the priest, raising 
his hand impatiently. 

“Yes; because you are a saint and look down 
upon all these things from the height whereon you 
stand. But it is an injustice, father; it is a villainy,” 
she added, growing excited again. “You are too 
good to live among these people, and they sacri- 
fice you like a lamb. If it were I ! Do you think 
that it does not pain me to see you humiliated, to 
see you trod under foot by those insignificant fellows, 
who are not fit to clean your shoes ? Is it not sad that 
another should reap the reward of your zeal? It 
may be of no consequence to you, father, but I 
cannot see you, without my blood boiling, the vicar, 
the simple assistant of that — that boasting babbler.’’ 
She dropped into a chair and began to sob ; but rising 
suddenly, she continued, stamping with rage, flour- 
ishing her clenched fists in front of the door, in a 
harsh, concentrated voice which inspired terror. 

“ Rascals ! infamous scoundrels ! heretics ! Do 
you believe that you are going to come out ahead 
in this matter? You shall not, because there is a 


FAITH. 


223 


God in heaven, and because I am here on earth, and 
I will declare war on you. See if I don’t. You 
shall learn of what a poor woman is capable ! You 
will not laugh, oh no ! You shall see how I shall 
contrive to cast a drop of gall in your dish of cream, 
so that you shall not brag again, hogs ! ” 

She ended by feeling ill. Father Gil was obliged 
to call Da. Josefa, and order her to fetch a cup of 
linden flower tea, with drops of orange flower 
water. At nine o’clock at night, the young ladies 
and the workmen who were helping them had not 
finished decorating the church. The vigil was 
sweetly prolonged for all those pious souls who 
served their Divine Master in such petty tasks with 
a cheerful spontaneity which was a precursor of 
that which they would feel in heayen when, trans- 
formed into angels, they would surround the throne 
of the Most High, and sing. Here a curtain which 
concealed the dimness of the wall, there a chande- 
lier, further on a great jar of flowers, all discussed 
warmly and at length before they were .placed in 
position. Those who most distinguished them- 
selves in this work of ornamentation, were Da. Mar- 
ciala and Marcelina, the first by her frenzied activity, 
the second by her skill and taste. Father Gil pre- 
sided over the work, as temporary coadjutor, but 
the majority of the ladies were already paying 
more heed to the commands of Father Narciso. 
The news of his triumph had already flown through 
all Pefiascosa, and the ladies, with their natural 
inclination toward all that shines and acquires flat- 
tering prominence in the world, had begun afresh to 


224 


FAITH. 


feel a certain tenderness toward him. In the groups 
which formed in the corners of the temple to whis- 
per, casting furtive glances at all his words, he was 
received with kind and submissive looks, and he was 
overwhelmed with attentions. In the meantime, 
Da. Filomena contrived to hide behind them all, 
• and enjoyed in the bottom of her heart this happy 
event, which was due to her alone, caressing her 
confessor with a moist, suave gaze in which were 
depicted tenderness, secrecy, and submission. 
Obdulia had withdrawn early, unable to endure such 
nauseous adulation, and the abandoment of her be- 
loved confessor. Moreover, Marcelina had launched 
a witty and improper remark at her, and, although 
she had retorted with another even more sanguinary, 
since she never remained in debt on such occasions, 
she was afraid of falling ill with rage. 

Nevertheless, everytliing was not pure felicity for 
the future cherubim of the celestial court. Don 
Miguel, the terrible rector, disturbed in a thou- 
sand ways, each more churlish than the other, 
the peace of their hearts, now flinging a curtain 
on the floor, on the pretext that it concealed some 
image or other, now transporting the jars of flowers 
whither his caprices dictated, or detaining the 
messengers and employing them on other errands, 
and so forth, and so on. No censure or episcopal 
mandate could lessen the energy of this ferocious 
eccentric, nor force him to bend his neck. He was 
the proper rector of Peftascosa, and no power on 
earth, not even that of the Pontiff himself, could 
deprive him of that character. Let them appoint 


FAITH. 


225 


a coadjutor for him. Good, he laughed at the 
coadjutor, and if the latter went astray ever so little 
he would enlighten him with a couple of bruises, 
to make him walk straight. Fortunately for all 
parties. Father Gil was gentleness in person, and 
allowed him to do as he pleased, so long as he did 
not interfere with the cure of souls, and this last, as 
we already know, was not D. Miguel’s specialty. 
But the ladies protested below their breaths against 
his tyranny, and hoped devoutly that D. Narciso 
would grasp the reins of the parish with more vigor. 

“Idle creatures! awkward hussies ! You would 
do better to remain in your houses and skim the 
pot, or darn stockings. Wretched ash pole! If I 
were your husband or your father. I’d speak my 
mind to you about playing tricks in the church at 
all hours.” These and other endearing expressions 
the rector muttered in the corners of the church 
loud enough to be heard. And it was clear that 
these mystic roses, when they heard him, quivered 
in their calyxes and folded up timidly. They mur- 
mured bitter complaints in each other’s ears, but 
dared not utter them aloud. D. Miguel was capa- 
ble of kicking them out of the church. As the 
rector found no occasion to do this, he relieved his 
heart by adminstering a couple of kicks to any 
acolyte who chance to cross his path. 

While this was taking place in the church, 
an immense crowd was thronging the doors of 
i the Agoray where its worthy president, D. Gaspar. 
' de Silva, was engaged in drilling two dozen 
I young working girls in a hymn of his invention, 


226 


FAITH. 


with music by the director of the municipal band, to 
be sung during the banquet in the theater. And the 
silvery voices of the chorus soared, at intervals, 
through the windows of the house, arousing in the 
multitude unlimited enthusiasm, which broke forth 
in applause and hurrahs. So that, after a while, 
various very worthy townspeople, fishermen by 
profession, demanded in shouts that D. Caspar 
should present himself at the window, that they 
might render him his due tribute of honors. The 
great poet was forced to yield to this demand of the 
multitude, which received him with thunderous clap- 
ping of hands and loud shouts. The angular silhou- 
ette of the bard was detached against the arch of the 
window, and it could be clearly seen that he raised 
his hand repeatedly to the region of his heart, 
whereupon the enthusiasm of the multitude was 
converted into downright delirium. 

A wind of pleasure, of pure and fervent joy, swept 
through the inhabitants of the noble town. They 
had always longed for a more worthy and more 
capacious temple, but they had never thoroughly 
comprehended its importance. Only when they 
knew positively that one was about to be erected 
on the Square, of greater dimensions than all those 
in Sarrid, did they feel moved to the very last fibers 
of their patriotism. There was no one, great or 
small, who did not repeat with frenzy: “ Forty^ 
five fifty long, and thirty twenty-five broad. The 
cathedral of Sarrid is only forty by twenty-eight 
fifty.” Another dose of ineffable joy was reserved 
for the hearts of the meritorious Pefiascosians, The 


FAITH. 


227 


pavement of the new church was not to be of com- 
mon pavingstones, like that of Sarri6, but of 
glazed tiles; the altars were to be cut in Italy, the 
crystals in London ; the principal altar was to be 
entirely of marble. Each of these details, repeated 
from mouth to mouth, caused them to shed tears of 
tenderness. 

A temporary stage had . been erected on the 
Square, on the site which the new temple was to 
occupy, for the authorities, the grandees of 
the town, and the ladies. From this platform the 
bishop was to lay the corner stone, which already 
hung suspended by silken cords, completely ready. 
In the theater the banquet table, garlands and 
trophies were being put up, and the hammering 
was incessant. Over each of the stalls, called boxes, 
they hung two national banners, crossed ; a garland 
of laurel connected them all in a graceful manner. 
This was the idea of D. Peregrin Casanova, who had 
presided over a banquet in the theater of Tarragona, 
during the fortnight of his reign over that province. 
Finally, on the Field of Discouragements, the wires 
were already stretched for the illumination, 
although the lanterns were not yet hung upon them. 
This had been postponed to the last moment, 
through fear of rain. 

There was no danger. The twenty-fourth dawned 
serenely. A few impertinent little clouds, which 
had piled up near the earth, on the inland side, were 
very promptly swept away by the breeze from the 
northeast, with great applause from all the sensi- 
ble persons in the population. The sea rippled 


228 


FAITH. 


softly, smiling at the privileged town, and the sun 
reared his disk majestically from behind the waves, 
disposed for once in his life to give pleasure to the 
honorable Pefiascosians. For, since time imme- 
morial, it had been known, that, no sooner was a 
festival got under way in Pefiascosa, than the sun 
took to his heels, and left the clouds to give what 
account of him they cpuld. Four dozen dyna- 
mite shells, capable of making the very dead shake 
in their tombs, announced his arising. The munic- 
ipal band saluted the star of the day by playing in 
the streets tho famou? Umbrella Polka. Then it 
planted itself on the Field of Discouragements, sur- 
rounded by a swarm of children, and executed 
several operatic selections. The sea, beating gently 
against the rocks, served as contrabass. Toward 
nine o’clock they marched in the direction of the 
Square, playing a double quickstep, and thence they 
struck out upon the highway to Lancia, to await 
the bishop, the governor, and the persons who ac- 
companied them. 

These personages speedily arrived in six coaches, 
which made the town quiver with joy at the rum- 
bling of their wheels. A cloud of rockets soared into 
the air. The travelers were received on the Square 
with immense shouts. Every Pefiascosa man who 
possessed the use of his lower extremities, quitted 
his domicile that day to rejoice his eyes with the 
sight of the fine company. The bishop was a tall, 
stout man, with white hair and round face, like the 
full moon adorned with spectacles. The governor 
was a weak, puny, pale little man, with hollow eyes. 


FAITH. 


229 


He was dressed in his grand uniform, and the ribbon 
of Isabel the Catholic lay across his breast. The 
persons who accompanied him were equally brilliant 
with crosses, uniforms, and decorations. Behind 
them marched a detachment of carabineers. At 
the sight of this brilliant and splendid procession 
defiling before them, the fancy of the patriots of 
Pefiascosa, always inclined to exaltation, carried 
them away in an inexplicable manner. The pride 
of having been born in that favored town intoxi- 
cated them as it never had done before. For one 
instant they believed that they were in the capital of 
a great empire, that the eyes of the whole civilized 
world were fixed on Pefiascosa. The intoxication 
must have been irresistible when it went to the 
head of so grave and competent a person as D. Juan 
Casanova to such a degree, that he even walked in 
front of the party, hat in hand, gesticulating and 
talking to himself like a madman. “ When could 
we have dreamed,” he exclaimed, waving his hat, 
when could we have dreamed that so many nota- 
bilities, so many eminent personages of the clergy, 
of the administration, of the army, would come to- 
gether in our town? Rejoice, fellow-citizens of 
Pefiascosa! Rejoice ! For us the era of justice is 
beginning. This poor town, so left in the lurch, 
you know well by whom .... this poor, neglected 
-town, raises its head at last, and will proclaim to 
the whole world its worth — that is it — its worth ! If 
we have been the slaves, hitherto, of another town, 
which is inferior to ours, we have broken our chains 
now. Come to your windows, fair dames of Peflas- 


230 


FAITH. 


cosa ! Come to your windows and scatter flowers 
over our illustrious guests ! Come forth ! Come 
forth ! ” 

D. Juan Casanova had gained much in emotion 
and in heat during this tirade. His voice had be- 
come hoarse and tremulous. But impartiality com- 
pels us to confess that he had lost something of his 
characteristic majesty. At least those discomposed 
movements of the shoulder and head were inexcus- 
able in a man so morally and physically elegant. 
The children who walked beside him regarded him 
with alarm, and the fair dames of Peflascosa evoked 
by him, if they did not scatter flowers, did smile 
from their windows at the sight of him in so slovenly 
a state, displaying rows of teeth such as you will 
never behold in Sarrid, I can assure you under 
oath. 

After taking refreshments in the town-hall, and 
resting a little, the company returned to the Square, 
where the act of laying the corner stone of the new 
house of God was performed with a solemnity capa- 
ble of making the most hardened atheist shed tears. 
One of the persons who bustled about and inter- 
meddled most was the apothecary, D. Josd Maria, 
the former subscriber to The Insurrection., and the 
associate of masons, thus furnishing clear testimony 
that nothing, is impossible with God, and that no 
one can say that he has been completely abandoned 
by His hand. Then the governor made a speech 
from the platform to the people, and although his 
discourse did not reach more than three or four 
meters, the people comprehended, with wonderful 


FAITH. 


231 


instinct, that it was crammed with eloquence, and 
they became frantically enthusiastic. Hundreds of 
kerchiefs of all colors plowed the air, in token of 
the magic effect which the oration of the first civil 
authority in the province had produced upon them. 
The rockets and the municipal band seconded this 
glorious manifestation of the kerchiefs. An im- 
mense multitude of blue blouses and striped 
trousers moved in an agitated manner, stirred by the 
most noble and humanitarian sentiments. 

All immediately proceeded to the parish church, 
to sing a Te Deum of gratitude. The temple, 
adorned, as we are already aware, by the women 
of the most select society in Pefiascosa, was glit- 
tering with metal sconces, chandeliers, and tapers. 
On the preceding day, a slender orchestra had ar- 
rived from Lancia, consisting of two violins, a violin- 
cello, and a contrabass, and with it, three or four of 
the cathedral singers. The musicians placed them- 
selves in the choir, the bishop and priests in the 
chancel. D. Miguel, the obstinate rector, would not 
don the sacred vestments, under pretext of his in- 
disposition, and retired to the choir with the orches- 
tra. The prelate delivered a brief and sensible 
sermon from the pulpit. He had a fine baritone 
voice, which made the most delicate cords in the 
hearts of all the mystic roses in town vibrate. The 
brilliancy of his pectoral cross in diamonds, and of 
the crystals of his spectacles, lent greater luster and 
a magic power to his sweet, sonorous, persuasive 
words. 

Then the Te D^um was sung. The trebles and 


232 


FAITH. 


basses from Lancia catliedral gave forth prodigious 
quavers, which astounded the good people of Peflas- 
cosa. The diminutive orchestra supported them 
admirably. But lo ! D. Miguel took it into his head 
to look with malevolent eyes upon the poor contra- 
bass, because he only, passed his bow across the 
strings now and then. The rector was on his knees, 
and in front of him was the musician, with his back 
turned toward him. He glanced at him from time 
to time, and on each occasion with increasing ex- 
citement. The musician was doing his duty by 
scraping the strings parsimoniously, and producing 
a dull, antipathetic roar. This appeared to D. 
Miguel the height of stupidity, and slothfulness. 
To come all the way from Lancia, at a good salary, 
with the jourtiey paid for, to make a few ron, rons, 
with that utensil, was really a very irritating thing. 
The flood of indignation continued to swell in his 
bosom. A thousand . thoughts of extermination 
mounted to his brain, while his grim and sinister 
gaze remained riveted on the shoulders of the un- 
lucky contrabass, who was, certainly, very far from 
conscious of the sanguinary thoughts which his 
inoffensive person inspired at that moment. Finally, 
having allowed a chord more harsh and strident than 
the rest to escape him, the old rector could wait no 
longer, and rising briskly, he bestowed upon him a 
kick in the loins which caused him to fall headlong. 
The musician and his instrument rolled noisily on 
the floor. All the faithful raised their heads at this 
uproar. Having satisfied justice, D. Miguel re- 
turned to the position which he had previously 


FAI7'H, 


233 


occupied. When the unfortunate musician came 
to inquire why he had done this thing, he re- 
plied that he wanted no lewd persons in the 
church, and that the man would do well to 
take himself off as far as possible with his hulk 
of an instrument, as he could not promise to con- 
tain himself. 

The Te Deum being concluded, a few more dozen 
dynamite cartridges were exploded in the air, as 
was logical. The Pepaina’s two sympathetic sons, 
Chola and Lorito, came near perishing, victims to 
their daring, through taking possession of one of 
them which had not burst. When D. Miguel learned 
that they had burned their faces and hands, he de- 
clared, in consonance with all the Holy F'athers, 
that he believed in the direct interposition of Provi- 
dence in human affairs. 

A little later, the banquet* in the theater began. 
All the guests from Lancia took part in it, with the 
exception of the bishop and his familiars. There 
were more than a hundred diners, who occupied 
three parallel tables, situated in the precincts of the 
stalls. On the stage was placed the chorus of 
maidens drilled in the Agora by D. Caspar de Silva 
and the director of the municipal band. The boxes 
were occupied by all that was aristocratic, elegant, 
and exquisite which Peflascosa contained Avithin 
its bosom. Hardly was the soup served when 
D. Caspar’s hymn was heard. It began with a sort 
of prolonged recitative in lugubrious notes, executed 
by a light tenor, a cabinetmaker by trade. He said, 
if we recollect aright : 


234 


FAITH. 


“ Penascosa, yesterday sad, 

Happy to-day, 

Shakes off the apathy in which she lived 

And launches out on progress with enthusia-a-a-asm 

And la-a-a-aunches out on progress with ardor.” 

After this tirade, gloomy as a dirge, which the 
tenor sang with all the emphasis of which a cabinet- 
maker is capable in such cases, the maidens broke 
in vigorously with the allegro : 

“ The town, in animation 
And full of hope, 

La-a-a-aunches out upon enjoyment 
With magic ardor.” 

This hymn, of classical cut and which may be 
compared, without discredit, with the most inspired 
efforts of the ancient priests, in case we were ac- 
quainted with any of these, immediately awakened 
in the minds of the diners, and in those of the pub- 
lic, a thousand ideas of indefinite progress and per- 
fectability. For one moment, all those lofty spirits 
lived two centuries in advance, and beheld with the 
eyes of the spirit an ideal Peftascosa ornamented 
with factories and breweries. Marvelous power of 
poetry ! They applauded furiously with their hands 
and with their spoons. And, although some person 
of light and effeminate spirit declared that what he 
was applauding was the black eyes and white teeth 
of the Peftascosa women, we are certain that the 
majority knew how to appreciate the pure intention 
and the classicism of the bard of Peftascosa’s hymn. 
The proof is that when a cry was heard from one of 


FAITH. 


235 


the stalls : “ Let the author come forth ! ” the people 
in all the other stalls began to shout the same thing, 
and the invited guests expressed the same desire, 
with their mouths full. D. Caspar finally made his 
appearance on the stage, and advanced, bent like a 
bow, to the edge of the platform. Then, making an 
effort over his corns, he turned round hastily, and 
went t^ the foyer to get the author of the music, a 
plump little man, who presented himself with his 
hair standing stiffly upright like that of an appari- 
tion. The public broke into warm applause at the 
sight of them, hand in hand. D. Caspar pointed at 
the composer of the music, as though to say, by 
signs : “ To this man you owe everything.” The 
director of the music pointed to D. Caspar, with 
the same mimicry : “ The triumph belongs to this 
gentleman.” Finally, unable to express in a more 
plastic manner the profound admiration which each 
cherished for the other, and the perfect concord of 
their enthusiastic spirits, they embraced in the 
middle of the stage, and remained clasped in each 
other’s arms for a considerable time. 

We know not what mysterious, magic influence 
the act of embracing executed by two individuals 
of the same sex can exercise upon an audience; but, 
on every occasion when we have witnessed it, we 
declare that it has produced the same surprising 
effect. The public rises, electrified, shouts, ap- 
plauds, pulls out its handkerchief, gesticulates vio- 
lently, and there are even some ladies who shed 
tears. Why? Dcf not ask us. We think that 
science has not yet reached the point where it can 


236 . FAITH. 

furnish a satisfactory answer to this problem. It 
was a vertigo, a delirium ; the uproar lasted more 
than ten minutes, while Euterpe and Thalia re- 
mained in a close embrace. When the tumult began 
to subside a little, a voice was heard to say : “ Let 
them kiss each other !*” It appeared that the per- 
son who launched this cry was a journalist from 
Lancia. If it were intended as a jest, it certainly 
was very ungracious. To jeer at so solemn an act, 
in which the moral and material regeneration of 
Peflascosa was being celebrated, was an insolence, 
and, as D. Juan Casanova very well expressed it, 
“ did not give a favorable idea of the culture of the 
press of Lancia.” Accordingly, they did not kiss, 
although D. Caspar showed a tendency to do so, as 
he approached his violet-hued nostrils very close to 
the face of the ghost ; but the latter drew back, 
exhibiting signs of prudence, since people talked 
in very grave terms throughout Pefiascosa, of the 
nostrils of D. Caspar. 

The hymn terminated, then it was begun again and 
repeated to the very end. The governor addressed 
the public once more. Some governors have a 
reputation for destituting councils, others for carry- 
ing off the mattrasses which the provincial deputa- 
tion places under them. This one had a reputation 
for eloquence. D. Peregrin Casanova replied to 
him and tooL advantage of the opportunity to call him 
“my distinguished colleague,” and to allude to the 
lofty duties imposed by the government of a prov- 
ince, “which he had striven to fulfil in former days 
according to the measure of his weak forces.” D. 


FAITH. 


237 


Jos^ Maria, the apothecary, spofce also, advocating 
the support of religion as an “element of progress” 
— he retained a few little phrases from his free- 
thinking days — and as a “curb on illegitimate ap- 
petites.” D. Jose, the tobacco merchant, spoke; 
D. Remigio Florez, the manufacturer of alimentary 
preserves, spoke; the director of The Future of 
Lancia, who had fought a duel with swords, a 
few days before, with D. Rosendo Belinchon, 
the director of The Sarrid Beacon, spoke. Then 
the governor spoke again. An editor of The Sar- 
rian Youth tried to utter a few words, but he was 
interrupted by several murmurs from the boxes, 
and resumed his seat, greatly abashed. Finally, D. 
Caspar de Silva advanced to the front of the stage, 
holding a paper in his hand. “Silence! Tss ! Tss! 
Keep quiet! Silence! Out with him! Tss! tss!” 
In the midst of a religious silence, the famous 
bard of Pefiascosa began to read, in a dramatic voice, 
an “ Ode to Religion.” Sacred themes were not his 
specialty. He had always preferred to place his 
lyre at the service of liberty and democratic ideas. 
His best composition was a sonnet to the “ Sinalag- 
matic Bilateral Fact.” Comprehending, neverthe- 
less, with profound intuition, the sublime destiny 
to which heaven had appointed him, he sang, like 
the bards of old and the demagogues of antiquity, 
everything which offered itself to his vision : peace 
and war, democracy and principalities, religion and 
free thought. This ode, which began: “Oh, re- 
ligion, sweet, immaculate ! ” was a highly inspired 
production, and was received with lively tokens of ap- 


FAITH. 


23S 

proval. The banquet ended after nightfall. At 
six o’clock the sacristan and some employees of the 
municipality began to light the little lamps in Vene- 
tian fashion, in the Field of Discouragements, so 
that, by eight o’clock, they were nearly all aglow. 
The evening turned out very merry. In one corner 
of the Field the villagers danced, to the sound of the 
pipe and tambourine ; in another the artisans did 
the same, to the music of the city band. The popu- 
lace wandered over the free space with constantly de- 
creasing freedom, since the street of the Quadrant 
did not cease to discharge blue blouses and percale 
kerchiefs, over the Field in question. The most 
exquisite portion of Pefiascosa society took refuge in 
the church porch, establishing the division of castes 
with which the reader is already acquainted. A 
procession was imrhediately organized where the 
strangers from Lancia could appreciate, at a single 
glance, all the majesty and grandeur which Peftascosa 
inclosed in its bosom. There were the members of 
the evening assembly in the house of Da. Eloisa, 
and, in addition, another part of the nobility of the 
town, with which we have not been able to bring 
the reader into contact. After having enjoyed for 
a long space the pleasure of seeing themselves, like 
the immortals in Olympus, isolated and above the 
rest of the beings of creation, this society made an 
incursion into the Field of Discouragements, to take a 
look at the fireworks from the renowned makers of 
pyrotechnics in Pelente. They entered without losing 
their composure, with disdain and gravity calculated 
to fill the hearts of the lower orders with respect. 


FAITH. 


239 


Obdulia, agitated all day by an intense grief and 
a raging desire to repair the injustice of which her 
beloved spiritual director had been the victim, re- 
mained at home and in bed. She was really ill. 
She had a fever, the fever which is produced in tem- 
peraments like hers by one exclusive thought, which 
becomes more and more exacerbated. When night 
came, she rose and dressed herself hastily. The 
great blue circles round her eyes were now marked in 
a shocking manner. A deep wrinkle, the sign of 
irrevocable determination, furrowed her brow. She 
summoned her maid, and informed her that she de- 
sired to go out to see the fireworks. The woman 
did her best to dissuade her, representing to her the . 
serious injury which the cold and dampness of the 
night might cause her, but in vain. She seized her 
mantilla, threw it over her head, with convulsive 
hands, compelled the servant to put on hers, and 
they issued forth into the street. The Field of Dis- 
couragements was already swarming with people. 

It cost them many efforts to advance and place 
themselves in the center of it. Obdulia was re- 
solved, at any price, to approach the house of the 
rector, where the bishop was lodged. She had seen 
the latter’s spectacles glitter in one of the windows, 
and then vanish. Beneath, at the very door of the 
rectory, a numerous group of girls was dancing the 
“ Giraldilla,” and singing at the tops of their voices 
couplets appropriate to the occasion, which they im- 
provised on the spur of the moment. In them 
they alluded to the new church, lauded the bishop, 
the governor, the grandees of Pefiascosa, with- 


240 


FAITH. 


out omitting, of course, the customary stab at 
Sarrid. 

The imagination of Osuna’s daughter worked with- 
out cessation, increasing the fever which was con- 
suming her. But, above all the thousand thoughts 
and fancies which revolved within her, loomed one 
fixed, tenacious idea, which unconsciously impelled 
her to force her way through the throng, followed by 
the maid, who did not understand her mistress's 
energy. When they reached the vicinity of the 
rectory, the young woman halted for a few minutes. 
She watched her maid out of the corner of her eye, 
and when she saw her wholly absorbed in the con- 
templation of the fires which were burning, she 
maneuvered cleverly and edged away from her, 
hiding among the crowd. Once alone, she halted 
again. After casting an infinite number of glances 
of fear and anxiety at the rector’s house, after turn- 
ing round more than twenty times and repenting as 
often, she finally slipped like a shadow behind the 
girls who were dancing and the circle of spectators 
which surrounded them, and made her way into the 
porch of the house. In it stood several servants 
gossiping as they saw what they could from that 
point. They had the door open ; and Obdulia, 
without saying a word to them, passed through it 
and ascended some staircases. Then pausing sud- 
denly, and remaining a moment in indecision, she 
descended them once more, and approached the 
group of domestics. 

“ Is the bishop’s secretary upstairs? ” she inquired 
of the one who stood nearest. 


• FAITH, 


241 


D. Cayetano ? Yes, sefiora, he is upstairs,” re- 
plied one of the most distant. 

“Can I speak a few words with him?” 

“ Why not ? I will inform him. Come up with 
me.”. 

They ascended D. Miguehs dim staircase, which 
had not been cleaned even in honor of the bishop’s 
visit. 

“ Have the goodness to wait here a moment.” 

Shortly after, the secretary made his appearance, 
a middle-aged ecclesiastic, ugly, slovenly, but with 
a frank, intelligent face. 

“ You asked for me, seftora ? ” 

“Yes, sefior.” 

“ You wish to say ” 

“ I desire to speak with the bishop.” 

The secretary looked at her again, and \yith still 
more curiosity, and after hesitating an instant, a 
faint smile made its appearance and he said ; 

“ You will understand that the hour is not oppor- 
tune. His Illustriousness is on the point of retiring 
to rest.” • 

“What I have to communicate to him is urgent, 
and of great importance,”* she said precipitately. 

Again the ecclesiastic scrutinized her with a 
piercing glance, and noted her agitation. 

“ Good. What I can do to serve you, is to in- 
form His Illustriousness. I do not promise that he 
will receive you at this hour. You may pass into 
that room and wait a moment. I will bring you his 
answer without delay.” 

He opened the door of the little reception room, 


242 


FAITH. 


caused a lamp to be brought and left her alone. At 
that moment, the young woman felt that all her 
strength was abandoning her. Her heart began to 
beat violently in her bosom. The house rocked 
gently like the cabin of a vessel. She found herself 
obliged to support herself with both hands on the 
back of a chair, to keep from falling. The secretary 
made his appearance again at the expiration of a 
few moments, and without crossing the threshold, 
he said with affected solemnity ; 

“ His Illustriousness will be here directly.’' 

Obdulia closed her eyes, and clutched the chair 
more firmly. When she opened them, the imposing 
form of the prelate stood before her. 

The room lay in a half light, owing to the. shade 
which covered the lamp. The outlines of his form 
melted into the shadow. But the diamonds of his 
pectoral cross darted sparks of light, and the glasses 
of his spectacles also shone in the feeble rays of 
light which fell upon them. He advanced a few 
paces into the room. Obdulia fell upon her knees. 

“ Is it some matter of conscience, my daughter? ” 
asked the prelate gently presenting her his ring to kiss. 

“Yes, sir,” replied the young woman in a voice 
altered by emotion. “ It is a case of Your Illus- 
triousness’s conscience.” 

“ Of my conscience? ” exclaimed the bishop, draw- 
ing himself up slowly, and casting down upon her a 
glance of surprise and curiosity. 

“ The purest conscience, as Your Illustriousness is 
better aware even than I, is subject to error. When 
we think that we are doing well, we are doing ill. 


FAITH. 


243 


The soul of Your Illustriousness is noble, and it is 
holy, according to vvhat I have been told by all who 
know you. For some reason God has elected you to 
feed his flock. But the eyes of Your Illustriousness 
do not penetrate everywhere, like the eyes of God. 
Your arm is extended in vain to bless. The benedic- 
tion does not reach all. Among the pastors whom 
Your Illustriousness has appointed to aid you, there 
are some who guard the flock with fidelity and love, 
there are also some who keep their eyes and their 
love riveted upon themselves.” 

“ Rise, my daughter. What do you mean to 
intimate by these words? ” 

“What I mean to intimate, sefior,” said Osuna’s 
daugliter audaciously, speedily recovering her seren- 
ity under the impulse of exaltation, “is, that we 
have in this town a zealous coadjutor, who is a 
model of abnegation, of gentleness, of activity, who 
had suceeded, by dint of immense sacrifices, in in- 
spiring with devotion and piety many who had 
never felt them, who, without any violence whatever^ 
has restored order to the parish and restored to God 
that wfiich belonged to him. Moreover, I have 
heard, all we parishioners have heard with grief, that 
instead of leaving him in the post which he has been 
filling temporarily, Your Illustriousness has given it 
to another person.” 

' The bishop gazed at her in silence for a good 
space. The young woman, beneath this gaze, which 
passed through the glasses of his spectacles pierc- 
ingly, inquiringly, lost her serenity once more. 

“ It is the temporary coadjutor who has sent you 


244 


FAITH. 


to make representations to me ? ” he asked very 
quietly, enunciating every syll^le in a manner to 
render it epigrammatic. 

“Oh! no, sir!” exclaimed the young woman in 
extreme perturbation, turning very red. “ The 
senor coadjutor has no aspirations whatever. He is 
as contented with the post as without it. He 
knows nothing, and I desire that he shall know 
nothing. It is I who, because of the hatred with 
which injustice inspires me, have ventured to take 
this step — perhaps, imprudently.” 

“No perhaps! no perhaps!” muttered the prel- 
ate, shaking his head. 

He stared fixedly before him for a moment with- 
out even winking, absorbed in intense contempla- 
tion. Obdulia dropped her head. ^ 

“ My daughter,” he began again gravely, “youth 
has its rights. It may be giddy, thoughtless ; it may 
enjoy without measure all the gifts with which God 
has favored us; it may live in darkness, without a 
thought of sin. But youth has no right to play 
with our eternal salvation, with life and death. The 
Holy Catholic Church has its ministers, charged 
with watching over the faith. I, unworthy as I am, 
am one of them, and I am responsible to God and 
to the Supreme Pontiff for my acts. I have not 
learned, in any Holy Father, nor in any decretal, 
that prelates are obliged to give an account of 
themselves to children like you.” 

“ Oh, Sefior Bishop, I did not mean ” 

“ Listen, listen with patience, my daughter ; listen 
on your knees to your prelate.” 


FAITH. 


245 


Obdulia knelt down again, filled with confusion, 
and as red as a poppy. The bishop’s corpulent 
figure grew immeasurably great in her eyes; his 
white head, crowned with the violet calotte, was 
resplendent with majesty. 

“ The offices of the Catholic Church ought not to 
be posts which are coveted ; they are not to be 
sought, but to be accepted with humility and resig- 
nation. The more lofty the office, the more difficult 
and thorny is it for him who desires to serve God. 
In speaking of injustice, you have evidently re- 
garded it as an advancement, and in that you have 
sinned grievously. If the office of coadjutor has 
not been bestowed upon the person in whom you 
take an interest, that person should thank me, since 
I have released him from many terrible responsibili- 
ties, which render more difficult his eternal salva- 
tion.” 

Obdulia, perceiving that the lightning was di- 
rected against her confessor once more, found words 
to turn it aside. 

“ I must repeat to you, Senor Bishop, that Father 
Gil knows nothing of this step — that he would die 
of pain and shame if he were to hear of it, because 
he is modesty and humility personified. The esteem 
and respect which I feel for him, in company with 
all the inhabitants of this town, and my desire to 
see the parish in order, and well served, have im- 
pelled me, in a moment of giddiness, to apply to 
Your Illustriousness.” 

“ But do you not understand, my daughter, that 
by taking this strange step, extraordinary in a sen- 


246 


FAITH. 


sible and pious person, you have compromised your- 
self, and, what is worse, you are seriously compro- 
mising a priest ? ” 

“ O Holy Virgin I what have I done ? ” ex- 
claimed the young woman, covering her face with 
her hands. “ Yes, yes, now I understand that I 
have been a mad woman, that in seeking to do him 
good I have caused a terrible evil. Your Illustri- 
ousness despises me, and you are right, for I am 
only a poor fool. But that is not the worst of it. 
The horrible part of it is that henceforth you will 
be prejudiced against a poor innocent. Jesus of my 
heart, what a temptation mine has been ! ” 

And she broke into wild sobs, murmuring unin- 
telligible phrases. The prelate bent over her and 
spoke gently to her. 

“ Calm yourself, my daughter, and learn that a 
successor of the Apostles can feel neither prejudice 
nor hatred. If you have sinned, ask absolution 
from your confessor. Compose yourself, you have 
done no harm to anyone but yourself. Neither the 
innocent nor the guilty have anything to fear from 
me. Let all their fear be of God.” 

After demanding pardon repeatedly, and shedding 
innumerable tears, Obdulia kissed the prelate’s ring 
once more with devotion, and rose. Without rais- 
ing her eyes from the floor, she murmured feebly : 

“ Farewell, Seftor Bishop. May Your Illustrious- 
ness forgive the displeasure which I have caused 
you and forget it.” 

“ May the Most Holy Virgin protect you, my 
daughter. Recite a salve for me, for I need it 


FAITH. 


247 


greatly,” replied the prelate, allowing her to pass, 
and gazing at her with an expression of pity, which 
followed her until she had made her exit. 

She emerged stunned, mad with shame, with 
trembling hands and blazing cheeks. As soon as 
she reached home, she flung herself on her bed in a 
high fever. 


XL 


“The enigma is already deciphered, Father Gil,” 
said D. Alvaro from his armchair, as he saw the 
latter enter. The smile which accompanied these 
words was so convulsed and strange that it gave owe 
a chill. 

“What enigma?” asked Father Gil, somewhat 
agitated by the presentiment of a misfortune of some 
sort. 

“ Be not alarmed ; it is not the enigma of Crea- 
tion, but one more modest — that touching the visit 
of my wife to Pefiascosa a few months ago. Read 
this letter.” 

The young priest took from the heir’s hands the 
offered letter and read : 

My Dear Almaro : I have just learned that Joaquina gave 
birth to a child six days ago, which has been inscribed in the 
parish and in the civil register under your name. I have made 
inquiries, and I have been informed that it is perfectly legiti- 
mate, since your wife was in Pehascosa a few months ago, and 
slept in your house. I write in haste to ask you if it be true. I 
doubt it greatly, since you have never said a word to me on the 
subject. Reply immediately. 

• • Julio. 

Father Gil dropped his arms, bent his head, and 
exclaimed in a low voice : 

“ What infamy ! ” 


248 


FAITH. 


249 


The heir broke into a laugh. 

“ But do you still believe that there are infamies 
in the world? Of what use to you is all that you 
have read ? Evidently, you are present at the first 
performance of the comedy. I am at the second, 
and I can tell you in advance what will happen.” 

“ At all events, D. Alvaro, I am sorry in my very 
soul for this disgrace which has been put upon you, 
without your deserving it.” 

“ Disgrace ? Do you call the spider disgraceful, 
when it stifles a poor fly in its web, or the hawk, 
when it swoops down upon the innocent little 
chicken and bears it off through the air? Then the 
same infamous force (it really is infamous!) which 
moves the spider and the hawk, is that which dwells 
within my wife. The fly, the chicken, and I deserve 
the same fate, for having been born I ‘ For the 
greatest of man’s crimes consists in having been 
born,’ as Calderdn has said, and he was a priest like 
yourself.” 

Father Gil meditated for a few moments, and said 
at length, as though speaking to himself : 

“ I cannot persuade myself that there does not 
exist in us something more than a blind force ; that 
the light which burns from time to time in the 
breasts of men, and which is sometimes called justice, 
at other times love and abnegation, depends exclu- 
sively upon chemical combinations.^ Infamy is 
always infamy, and awakens in our mind a sentiment 
of repugnance. The spider and the hawk do not 
know that they are doing evil, but your wife does 
know.” 


250 


FAITH. 


“ What does it matter? Endow the beast with a 
consciousness of its acts, and you have formed man. 
Conscience is only a torch. Crimes can be per- 
petrated in the dark as well as in the light. If I 
thought like you, that there is a God, the conscious 
creator of all beings, I would waft him a kiss, and 
congratulate him on having made so amiable and 
enchanting a creature as my wife, and thank him for 
having reserved her for me in particular. Unfor- 
tunately, I cannot imagine this God receiving, in 
dressing gown and slippers, my cards of congratula- 
tion. I am more inclined to think that she and I are 
victims of logic. Life has for its immediate object, 
grief. Deduce the consequence for yourself. My 
wife was born with claws to scratch withal. I was 
born with a tender heart expressly to be scratched. 
It would be a contradiction if she did not scratch, 
and if I were not scratched.” 

“ Nevertheless, you have loved that woman with 
all your soul ! ” 

“Ah, yes!” exclaimed the nobleman, closing his 
eyes and passing his thin fleshless hand over his 
brow. 

“ I did love her! For a moment I was the equal 
of the immortals in Olympus. Felicity sang in my 
soul the most beautiful hymn that ever accompanied 
their divine games. The sun rose and set only to 
gild my illusions. The sea murmured only to re- 
flect the golden images which flitted through my 
mind. No man was ever hunted for the good of 
the race with more precautions, with more exquisite 
care. All the snares which Nature spreads for us’. 


FAITH. 


251 


in order to realize her mysterious plan, may be 
avoided ; even the will to live may be conquered — I 
have already conquered it, since I crave death with 
avidity. But this desire to perpetuate oneself which 
is exhibited in all the race, this sovereign force 
which forces an individual toward another individual 
of a different sex, is insuperable, take my word 
for .it, father. What a well turned arm! What 
alabaster shoulders ! What a fascinating way of 
drawing off her gloves, and moving her little finger, 
which is very pretty.” 

“ I am not acquainted with love, but I know that 
there are two sorts : one which has for its object 
solely sensual enjoyment which would make brutes 
of us, and another, the pure love of two souls which 
complete each other, of two hearts which unite to 
enjoy and suffer together, to form one being until 
death. That is the love which ennobles us, the only 
one which is worthy of a human being, and which 
deserves the name.” 

“ In fact that is what all petty poets, and weakly 
women think. But you are a serious person, and 
you cannot believe in such nonsense. Love is noth- 
ing more than a wile of Nature, father. In order to 
conquer our egoism, which is very great, she cheats 
us with a delusion, making us believe that what we 
desire is our own felicity, whereas it is the good of 
the species. The individual is the unconscious slave 
of ” 

A violent fit of coughing interrupted him. He 
motioned to Father Gil to give him the handker- 
chief which lay on the table, and raised it to his 


252 


FAITH. 


mouth. When he removed it, it was stained with 
blood. A smile of mortal sadness convulsed his 
lips, at the sight of this blood. 

“This is the only lover who never deceives, 
father,” he said, showing the handkerchief to the 
young priest, who had turned pale. “ You see the 
kiss that she has just given me. To-morrow she 
will give me a longer one ; then another and an- 
other, until she takes me in her cold arms, and clasps 
me forever.” 

And the terrible part of it was that he was right. 
D. Alvaro’s health, which had never been strong, 
had been declining visibly for some time past ; 
probably since the unexpected visit of his wife. 
He had grown much thinner, thin as he had always 
been. His complexion had turned from pale to 
earthy in hue ; his eyes had lost their mobility, and 
gained in brilliancy; his hands seemed those of a 
skeleton. 

From the moment when he learned of the 
cowardly and treacherous intrigue contrived in 
order that his property might pass to her illegiti- 
mate child, he raised his head no more, he drained 
the cup of sorrow to the dregs. He drained it with 
a smile on his lips, in order not to give the lie to 
his theories, but poison always produces its effect ; 
it consumed his vitals. His cough increased, so did 
the bloodstained expectorations. He passed whole 
nights without getting a wink of sleep. Everything 
presaged a speedy and fatal ending. 

During these days an interesting crisis took 
place in the tortured mind of Father Gil. Mate- 


FAITH. 


253 


rialism weighed upon his heart, like a sepulchral 
stone. 

But within this sepulcher, the idealistic spirit of 
the priest moved to and fro incessantly, struggling in 
anguish to get out to the free air, and breathe a 
purer atmosphere. His eagerness to shake ofif the 
leprosy which was devouring him little by little, im- 
pelled him to study the systems of dogmatic meta- 
physics of the ancients and the moderns. It was a 
great joy for him that the bishop had appointed 
Father Narciso coadjutor. He had much more time 
at his disposal and a freer mind. He devoted him- 
self once more to reading with feverish ardor. Be- 
fore his astonished vision passed in procession all 
the grand conceptions of the human understanding, 
the sublime, colosal efforts carried out by man, for 
the purpose of obtaining a satisfactory explanation 
of the great problem of existence. He had some 
knowledge of many of them, but it was vague, in- 
complete and often false, since it proceeded from 
the quotations in the books which he had handled in 
the seminary. When he studied them now, at their 
fountain head, he felt himself possessed by a great 
admiration which resembled stupor. The grandeur, 
the marvelous perfection of some of these systems, 
seemed insurpassable, and fascinated his soul. At 
times, when he had just completed his examination 
of one of them, it seemed to him as though he had 
lifted the veil of truth forever. This learned and 
portentous stringing together of all partial truths, in 
order to obtain the totality of truth, satisfied the 
aspirations of his mind toward unity. Moreover, 


254 


FAITH. 


these systems brought God back to him. They did 
not bring Him back as he could have wished, per- 
sonal, provident, attentive to the prayers of men, but 
finally,- at the end of all, they placed Him over the ma- 
terial universe, as its principle and its reason. We no 
longer wandered, like sad victims of shipwreck over 
the turbulent ocean of the physical forces ; we had 
now something to which we could lift our eyes and 
our heart. Evil became evil once more, and good, 
good. And like a man of lucid mind he did not 
heed the superficial contradictions of these systems, 
which so greatly impress and disappoint the vulgar 
herd. He proceeded further and saw clearly, that 
beneath this apparent conflict the systems of modern 
idealistic philosophy exchanged fraternal kisses. 
All were saturated with the same pantheistic ideal- 
ism. Penetrating still further, he observed that 
German philosophy shook hands with Greek philos- 
ophy across the desert of the Middle Ages. 

Unfortunately, the last philosopher whom he read 
was Kant, who should have been the first. As he 
ran over the first pages of the “ Critique of Pure 
Reason,” he experienced the strange impression of a 
man who goes out to view a landscape, and whose 
legs fail him. 

He has been accustomed not to think of the 
ground, and lo ! it sinks from beneath him. In order 
to know things it is first necessary to ascertain 
whether we can know them. And the result which 
he gradually deduced from his reading was, that we 
can know only the appearance of things. Our 
knowledge, in its ultimate expression, consists of 


FAITH. 


255 


nothing but perceptions, impressions, modifications 
of our own being. Then everything is a mere idea. In- 
stinct obliged him 4:0 seek for solid land with eager- 
ness ; but the more he tried to raise his feet, the 
deeper he sank, after the manner of incautious per- 
sons who venture upon marshy soil. He rose sud- 
denly, and tried to support himself upon those 
firmest of all notions, which have never failed the 
human understanding, the notions of time and space. 
The philosopher of Koenigsberg demonstrated, little 
by little, with inflexible logic, that space and time 
have no real existence, nor properties of such exis- 
tence, but are merely forms of perception which con- 
cern the qualities of our mind, and not external 
reality. Then he anxiously sought support in the 
constant union of cause and effect. Kant forced 
him to see that this union is nothing but the unin- 
terrupted chain of the changes which follow succes- 
sively in time, that every effect is a change, and every 
cause the same. Hence, it is as absurd to think of 
a primal cause of things, as of the spot, where space 
terminates or the instant when time began. 

A panic seized upon his soul, such as had never 
yet taken possession of it. Materialistic positivism 
had left him something ; matter is a reality, so are 
its relations. Moreover, he had never yielded him- 
self up to it, greatly as his mind had been agitated 
by very violent doubts. But now he was left alone, 
enveloped in utter obscurity, as regards the universe 
which surrounds us no less than as regards his own 
existence and destiny. Hence he battled, with the 
anguish of a man on the point of death, with the 


256 


FAITH. 


desperation of the shipwrecked mariner who disputes 
with another the succor of a plank. He discussed 
the propositions of the book one by one. It was 
the combat of a child with an athlete. Each of the 
propositions had been considered at length in all 
its aspects, by the most profound thinker of the cen- 
tury, and also by the most prudent. What force 
could his feeble hands bring to bear on bastions 
fashioned with such care ? His over-excited spirit 
imagined an argument ; he jotted it down on the 
margin of the book ; he thought it incontrovertible. 
On the following page it turned out that the philos- 
opher had already taken it into account, and had 
dissolved it with a breath. 

Sad and cruel struggle ! In the frenzy of his 
wrath and terror, he delivered a hail of blows upon 
the breast of the old athlete. The latter remained 
motionless as a rock. Then, with derisive calm, he 
let fall his iron hand upon the priest’s brow, and 
made him kiss the dust. He rose quickly, and at- 
tacked again, with more hardihood, and again he 
was stunned with a blow. He approached the end 
of the book. He felt that his strength was al- 
ready exhausted. He desired, nevertheless, to essay 
one last'effort against that oppressive logic, and rid 
himself of the bonds which imprisoned him. All 
was useless. The German Hercules caught him in 
his powerful arms, shook him a few times, as 
though he were made of straw, and wound up by 
hurling him violently to the ground. 

He could no longer rise. When he awoke from his 
consternation he confessed to himself that he was 


FAITH. 


257 


conquered. The world then offered itself to him 
clearly as his own idea. Everything which exists, 
exists only in thought. The philosopher of Koenigs- 
berg did not wish to draw that deduction; but it 
was very clear; there was no other, given his terrible 
premises. The sun which lights us, the sea which 
roars at our feet, those worlds which people space, 
are but so many representatives of our thought. All 
we know of them is that there is an eye which sees 
them. The center of gravity of existence falls back 
upon the subject, and is a phenomenon of his brain. 
All this universe, so rich, so varied, all beings great 
and small, the stars as well as the insects, hold their 
existence suspended by a very slender thread, the 
thread of consciousness. The world preserves 
much resemblance to a dream, a chimera. And 
what do we know about that God, the creator of 
things, the father of men ? We shall never know 
anything. From the moment when the world and 
the order of the world are pure phenomena deter- 
mined by our intelligence, there is no reason for 
the. existence of a Supreme Being. The hour had 
arrived to turn God out of doors, and to send Him 
off with all the honors due to a dethroned king. 

Pallid, panting, his body exhausted with fatigue 
and his soul crushed with grief. Father Gil 
remained stretched out in his wretched armchair. 
A book lay open on his knees, his arms hung limply 
down, his eyes were closed. Tears began to 
trickle from between the interspaces of his eye- 
\ lashes, and coursed tremulously and silently down 
I his cheeks. He was the sad image of the conquered 


258 


FAITH. 


man. Then his delicate body gave way, the features 
of his sweet and gentle countenance contracted, and 
a sob broke from his breast. He lifted his hands 
to his face, and wept disconsolately. “ Nothing, 
nothing ! We shall never know anything.” 

His housekeeper. Da. Josefa was stupefied when 
she entered the room, and found him in this con- 
dition. The vicar raised his head and made haste 
to turn it aside, that the good woman might not 
perceive his state ; but it was too late. 

“What? You are weeping, Seflor Vicar? What 
has happened, my dear creature ? Virgin of Soli- 
tude ! If you had father or brothers, I should think 
that some one of them was dead. I will wager that 
that busybody of a D. Narciso has been causing 
you some fresh displeasure. Despise him,- D. Gil, 
despise him ! ” 

“Oh, no! Be on your guard against injustice. 
Da. Josefa!” the young man hastened to say. 

“ No one has caused me any displeasure. These 
tears come from the nervous illness which I have 
been suffering from for several days.” 

“I told you so. You work too hard. Those 
blessed books, which I should like to see 
burned ” ^ 

Here Da. Josefa entered upon a long harangue, : 
declaring herself in principle a disciple of the ^ 
Caliph Omar. Father Gil stopped her before she 
had finished. 

“ What did you come to say to me. Da. Josefa ? ” 

“Ah, I had forgotten! Your godmother has i- 
sent a messenger to say that her brother is dying ; l 


FAITH. 259 

that you are to go to him immediately, and take 
the holy oils with you.” 

“Jesus! God be with him ! I did not think it 
would be so soon — Poor D. Alvaro 1 ” he exclaimed 
rising briskly, and making haste to don his hat and 
cloak. 

“ Bah ! A heretic, who never set foot in the 
church ! What does it matter if he does die ? The 
sooner the demons carry him off the better I” 

The vicar c^^st a timid and anxious glance at her. 
He dared not protest against this barbarity ; he 
feared lest she might penetrate his soul, and read 
his own sacrilegious doubts. 

After passing by the church, and taking the holy 
oils, he entered the ancient palace of the Mon- 
tesinos. The day was overcast. The rain fell 
sadly, with a pertinacity known only in that region 
of the Peninsula. Ramiro came to open the door, 
as usual. The old servant was overwhelmed. It 
seemed as though ten years had been added to his 
age in a few days. When he saw the priest, he 
caught him by the wrist with his tremulous hands, 
and exclaimed in a voice that was not his own: 

“ He is dying, D. Gil ! He is dying ! ” 

And a torrent of tears poured down his cheeks 
furrowed with wrinkles. 

“ Is it so serious ? ” 

“ He is dying! He is dying! She did it ! She 
did it, yes ! — But I will kill her— do you know ? I 
will kill her — then they may kill me — they may 
throw me into the sea — I want to avenge my young 
master — Fll kill the sly fox, that I will ! ” 


26 o 


FAITH. 


At the same time, the old man, without knowing 
what he was about, pressed the priest’s wrist with 
such force that the latter restrained a cry of pain 
with difficulty. ^ 

“Calm, Ramiro, calm! Our business now is to 
attend to the sick man, and see if we can do any- 
thing to relieve him.’^ 

“ Come upstairs with me, Seflor Vicar. There is 
no hope — The doctor lias said so — Poor dear young 
master! — I will kill her, I will kill hej- ! ” 

In the vast, roughly paved courtyard, the rain 
produced a lugubrious sound. They ascended the 
dirty, decayed staircase, to the principal floor. 
Ramiro continued to weep, and to mutter threats. 
They ascended to the second story. The old man 
pushed open the door of his master’s room, and the 
priest paused, impressed by the spectacle which 
presented itself to his sight. D. Alvaro Monte- 
sinos reclined rather than lay on his bed, with a 
pile of cushions behind his shoulders ; he lay in a 
swoon, with his eyes closed and his mouth half 
open, his poor chest shaken from time to time by 
an ominous hiccough. There was no one with him 
but Da. Eloisa and a maid-servant. The latter 
was fanning him, and the sick man was instinc- 
tively trying to catch the resulting air. His face 
presented all the symptoms of death. 

At the sound of the door. Da. Eloisa turned her 
face, bathed in tears, and made a sign that the 
priest should approach. 

“He has lain in this fit for a quarter of an 
hour,” she said in a fa»int voice. “ He may re- 


FAITH. 


261 


main in it — Will you administer Extreme Unc- 
tion ? " 

Neither the ideas of the sick man, nor the chaos 
which reigned at that moment in his own brain, 
prompted him to do so. Nevertheless, Father Gil 
opened the case containing the oils automatically, 
and prepared to administer the last rites to his un- 
happy friend. 

He was obliged to lift the bedclothes a little, in 
order that he might anoint his feet. Da. Eloisa and 
the maid turned aside ; they retreated to a corner 
of the room and sobbed violently. The rain, at 
that moment, was beating a sad peal upon the 
leaded panes of the window. The dingy curtains, 
of ancient muslin, allowed a dim light to pene- 
trate the alcove. Father Gil, with trembling 
hands, performed his pious office, while the last 
scion of the house of Montesinos lay unconscious, 
with the terrible pallor of death imprinted on his 
features. When he was on the point of finishing, 
the breast of the sick man grew somewhat calmer. 
A little later, he opened his eyes, and sent a glance 
of surprise, and even of terror, round the room. 
Then he closed his eyes once more. A moment 
later, he opened them, gazed fixedly at Father Gil, 
then directed his gaze at the Chrism, which the 
latter held in his hand, and his dying lips made an 
effort to relax into a smile. 

“You have anointed me at last!” he said, in a 
barely audible voice. “ You have done well. But 
this machine will go no longer, and however much 
oil you use on it ” 


262 


FAITH. 


Father Gil cast an expressive glance at Da. Eloisa. 
The latter exclaimed in distress : 

“ Remember God, brother.” 

“ I remember him very well, my dear. I am very 
grateful to Him.” 

Father Gil was anxious to avert a repulsive scene. 
He made a sign to Da. Eloisa and the maid that 
they should withdraw, as though he was about to 
proceed to confession. The women made haste to 
comply with the command, being eager, the sister 
in particular, that the dying man should make his 
peace with God. 

“ Although it is a long time since we have talked 
of religious subjects,” said Father Gil, seating him- 
self at the foot of the bed and bending his head 
toward the heir, “ I presume that your ideas have 
undergone no change since the last time that we dis- 
cussed them. Nevertheless, in these moments when 
your life is in some danger, do you not feel the 
necessity of a faith that shall illuminate the dark- 
ness in which you may be enveloped, of some hope 
which may console you in this bitter peril ? ” 

“ None. I have happily arrived at the catastro- 
phe of the horrible comedy. All men play in it a 
very far from successful part. Mine has been very 
melancholy.” 

“ It is true, D. Alvaro. You are one of the most 
unhappy men whom I have ever known. For that 
very reason, I believe either that there is no justice 
in heaven, or that you will there receive the reward 
for your sorrows if you repent at this time of your 
sins, and, also, of your antichristian ideas.” 


FAITH. 263 

Father Gil uttered these last words in a lower 
tone, as though ashamed of them. 

“ Neither in heaven nor on earth does that ridicu- 
lous justice which you assume exist. But there is 
something greater, and it is now on the point of 
being fulfilled.’,’ 

“ And are all the sorrows which you have suffered 
to remain fruitless ? Have you not a right to be- 
lieve in compensation ? ” 

“ No. I am profoundly guilty of the crime of 
having been born.” 

“ This is horrible, D. Alvaro, and absurd besides. 
The sorrows of this world make us believe that 
it is a transitory world, a world of trial ; that 
after this sad and bitter life, there is another, 
an eternal life, where our immortal soul will fin- 
ally enjoy the purest felicity. You, who have 
suffered more than others^ will enjoy a greater re- 
ward.” 

“ Oh, no! I desire no rewards! I want no future 
life ! I wish to rest — to rest eternally ! How sweet 
is that word, father ! Never more to feel the lashes 
of nature nor the stabs of men! Not to feel this 
miserable body which has caused me so much 
suffering ! Not to feel the teeth of that infamous 
woman slowly gnawing away my heart ! Listen, 
father. If you have even a little pity on me, do 
not try to deprive me of this last illusion. If you 
know that there is a heaven, hold your peace. I 
adjure you by all that you have loved in this world, 
do not disturb that blessed peace into which I am 
about to enter.” 


264 


FAIl'H. 


Father Gil, shaken by a qualm of sadness and 
compassion, began to weep. 

“Thanks — thanks for these tears,” said the sick 
man with a smile. At the same time, he laid his 
hand, as transparent as porcelain, on that of the 
priest, and pressed it gently. 

A long and sad silence ensued. Father Gil medi- 
tated, with ecstatic gaze fastened on the window. 
The dying man, with closed eyes, seemed to be 
wooing the sweet slumber which he craved. The 
room was very dark at times, again it lightened, 
revealing the denseness of the clouds which inter- 
cepted the light of the sun. 

“ But do you feel no horror at nothingness, at 
absolute annihilation?” Father Gil exclaimed at 
length, with a certain violence, as though he were 
arguing against his own thought. 

The heir of Montesinqs opened his eyes in sur- 
prise. 

“ What ? Do I not feel a fear of nothingness ? 
Oh, no ! What I fear is life. All wed it at birth, 
and it betrays everyone. Some say what I say. 
Others hold their tongues through shame.” 

“ And what if God were to condemn you to eternal 
torments, after this life, for having blasphemed 
so?” 

The dying man smiled, though with difficulty. 

“You ecclesiastics have invented that, to disturb 
the peace of this hour, of this happy hour. But I 
have bought it at too high a price to part with it.” 

Another long silence ensued. The sick man 
closed his eyes again. Apart from a certain strange 


FAITH. 


265 


agitation in his fingers, his tranquil attitude con- 
firmed the sense of his words. He seemed to be 
enjoying with voluptuousness the insensibility which 
was, little by little, invading his being, the prelude 
of nothingness. 

“And, nevertheless,” Father Gil said at length, 
with his eyes fixed on the window, “ would not this 
hour be infinitely sweeter if it were the entrance into 
a new life, if a legion of angels were to descend for 
our soul, and bear it away, to enjoy God eternally, 
as the Christians believe ? ” 

The heir raised his eyelids a little, and made a sign 
of negation with his head. Then he shut them 
again. But making an effort to sit up, at the ex- 
piration of a few minutes, he said in a firmer 
voice : 

“ It would be necessary, in order that I should 
enjoy life in the other world, that my whole body 
should be completely transformed. My character 
alone would suffice to weary me. Let me repose in 
peace. Let the fundamental error of my existence 
be destroyed, father. I should gain nothing by be- 
ing perpetuated, neither would the Universe. Many 
other millions of beings charged with sustaining the 
burden of life remain here.” 

“ But it is horrible to enter into a night without 
bounds, an eternal night ! ” 

“ Not so. Life is a nightmare. Death is a tran- 
quil sleep.” 

He closed his eyes once more. Father Gil pressed 
his hand affectionately, exclaiming: 

“ Who knows ! ” 


266 


FAITH. 


The dying man’s hand quivered slightly. The 
vicar did not open his lips again. He bent his head 
upon his breast, and closed his eyes also, pressing 
them with the tips of his fingers, as though endeavor- 
ing to repress the torrent of thoughts which were 
escaping from his brain. The wind and rain had 
ceased. Nothing was audible in the chamber but 
the distant roar of the waves, dashing against the 
cliffs. 

The priest’s meditation was long and painful. 
The sharp, cold blade of scepticism penetrated his 
vitals: a cruel hand twisted it round, pitilessly, in 
order to rend them better. Perhaps that which this 
man, maddened with pain, had said, was not true } 
But was that true which Christianity affirmed ? 
That, also, in the last resort, was also but an attempt 
to explain Existence and the Universe, more beauti- 
ful, more consolatory than the rest, no doubt, but a 
mere attempt, after all. We could have no certainty 
of it, since we have it not from our faculty for know- 
ing things.” 

When, after a long time, he raised his head, the 
fright which he received made him start in his chair. 
D. Alvaro was at the last gasp. His mouth was 
open, and he inhaled the air in silence, but it did not 
suffice to move his shattered lungs. 

“D. Alvaro ! D. Alvaro ! ” he cried, shaking him. 

There was no reply. Father Gil seized the fan, 
which lay on the night stand, and hastened to give 
him air. At the same time, he shouted : 

“Godmother! godmother! Come!” 

Da. Eloisa and the maid rushed into the chamber. 


FAITH. 


267 


In vain did they try to resuscitate the dying man, 
fanning him, placing him upright, opening the win- 
dow, doing everything which suggested itself to 
them at the moment. It was the last attack. He 
opened his mouth from time to time. He moved 
his fingers, in slight jerks. But his face continued 
to grow rapidly motionless. The man was being 
transformed into the statue ; his soul was being con- 
verted into stone. 

He drew three or four consecutive breaths and 
remained motionless, rigid, with his eyes and mouth 
half open. 

Da. Eloisa embraced him, sobbing, and covered 
his cadaverous face with kisses. The maid began 
to scream as though she were beaten. Father Gil 
dropped on his knees, and began to read his bre- 
viary, in a low voice. 

After a while. Da. Eloisa and the maid knelt also 
at the foot of the bed, and prayed. But the former, 
seeing a tear hanging beneath her brother’s lashes, 
rose quickly and caught it in her handkerchief. It 
was the tear shed by those who have just died; the 
tear of protest of the creature against the harsh 
power which has drawn it from nothingness, with- 
out asking it. 

“See, father, what peace, what sweet tranquillity 
his countenance breathes forth!” exclaimed the 
good woman, contemplating her brother with eyes 
full of grief and tenderness. “ It is plainly to be 
seen that he made his peace with God at the end! ” 

The priest dropped his breviary on the bed, and 
covered his face with his hands. 


XII. 


Obdulia announced to her confessor that she 
was resolved to leave the world, and consecrate her- 
self wholly to God in a convent. She could not 
have told him more agreeable news. For some time 
past, her marks of preference, the exaggerated sub- 
mission and even idolatry which the young woman 
had taken a delight in showing him, had made 
Father Gil uneasy. The last extravagance which 
she had committed, and of which he had been in- 
formed by the bishop’s secretary, had put him in such 
a state of confusion and annoyance that for many 
days he would not speak to her, and could not even 
reconcile himself to confessing her. The affair had 
become known, and excited much comment and no 
less laughter. It was clear that the person who lost 
most by it was she; but the dignity of the priest 
was also diminished by reflection. The young 
woman was put to shame. She did not present her- 
self in public, nor in the houses of her friends, and 
she even contrived to go to church at hours when 
no one was there. But she was still more afflicted 
by the attitude of her confessor than ashamed. Per- 
haps it was for that reason, and to insinuate herself 
once more into his favor, that she went one evening 
to notify him, in the confessional, of the step which 
she had decided upon. 


268 


FAITH. 


269 


He gave his consent. So exalted a devotion, so 
lively a craving for penance and sacrifice were more 
to his taste inside the walls of a convent than 
in the midst of the impurities of mundane life. To 
tell the truth, it had always been a source of some 
surprise to him that his penitent had not settled upon 
the monastic life, which conformed so well to her in- 
clinations. Then the age at which she had arrived, 
her first youth being past, gave no occasion to fear 
that her resolution was the offspring of an ephem- 
eral fancy, of a fugitive, romantic enthusiasm, such 
as often occurs with young girls between the ages 
of fifteen and twenty years. Not only, then, did he 
announce his consent, but he encouraged her, in 
gentle words, to persist in it, and to put it into exe- 
cution as speedily as possible. In the first place it 
was agreed between them that they should seek the 
best means for doing so. Father Gil, although he 
did not clearly confess as much to himself, was very 
thoroughly content to get rid of this uneasy and 
vexatious pious person, who annoyed him at all 
hours, and who might compromise him seriously 
some day when he was least expecting it. 

They discussed the question of the convent. 
Father Gil desired that she should go to that of the 
Augustines, in Lancia, but the young woman pre- 
ferred a stricter rule. In a little hamlet of Castile, 
called Astudillo, there existed a convent of Bare- 
footed Carmelites, where a cousin of hers was the 
superior. It was a sweet, remote retreat; there 
were not more than ten or a dozen nuns : a real 
little corner of heaven, as a certain priest who had 




270 

visited it had informed her. She insisted on going 
thither, and her confessor finally found no remedy 
but to yield. 

A -more serious question remained : the permis- 
sion 'of her father, Obdulia represented it, from the 
outset, as very difficult to obtain. Osuna had no 
other daughter. It was probable that he would re- 
sent the loss of her forever. She showed herself 
stubborn, afraid of speaking to him ; day after day 
passed without her attempting it. Father Gil en- 
couraged her, representing to her that what she was 
about to ask was in no way reprehensible. The 
resolution to retire from the world was good and 
pious in the eyes of the Church. Indifferent for 
those who did not believe in it, there was nothing 
immoral about it; it depended wholly on the taste 
or vocation of the person. If a father consents to 
one daughter’s marrying, or choosing a career in 
accordance with her tastes, why should he not per- 
mit another to seek her happiness in the silence of 
the cell? Above all, there was nothing offensive to 
his authority contained in the humble request. If 
he refused, they would allege reasons; perhaps they 
might succeed in convincing him. 

Finally, after much going and coming, attempts, 
fears, and vacillations, which encircled the enthu- 
siastic damsel with a grand pomp and mystery, she 
one day decided to attack this alarming enterprise. 
Holy Heaven, in what a state of confusion and ter- 
ror did she reach the confessional that evening ! 
Her father had flown into a mad rage at the mere 
announcement of what she desired to do. He had 


FAITH. 


271 


not been willing to listen to reason ; he had scolded 
her, used evil language to her, and thrust her out of 
his room with blows. He would rather see her 
dead, or slay her with his own hand. Father Gil 
considered this opposition exaggerated and even 
irrational, and proposed to appeal to Osuna himself, 
and make him understand that he had no right to 
do violence in this manner to the inclinations of his 
daughter, above all, taking into consideration that 
she was not a child lacking in reflection. Obdulia 
hastened to dissuade him from this undertaking. 
Her father had said, in a fit of passion, that he 
should regard as his enemy any person who spoke 
to him on the subject, that he would not listen to 
him, and that he would eject him from his house. 

He was obliged to yield for the time being, and 
await a more propitious opportunity. Neverthe- 
less, the pious young woman every day manifested 
greater and more vehement desires to abandon the 
world forever. This reconciled her with Father Gil, 
who had begun to hold her in small esteem. Several 
times, after her first attempt, she had attacked her 
father, but always in vain and unsuccessfully. 
Osuna ofYered more violent opposition on each oc- 
casion. As soon as he learned his daughter’s inten- 
tion, he showed himself sullen with her, and treated 
her with extraordinary harshness; on all occasions, 
but especially at the dinner hour, he ridiculed her de- 
voutness, and took a delight in tormenting her with 
cruel jests which made her weep. And not in words 
alone, but with deeds did he torture her pitilessly. 
She declared that her arms were black with the 


272 


FAITH. 


pinches which he inflicted upon her as soon as the 
question of the convent was broached. One day 
she showed her confessor how one of her ears had 
been torn by a tweak from the ferocious hunchback; 
on another day she came with her cheeks swollen 
and blackened through his having thrown a clothes 
brush in her face. Father Gil was horrified and 
confounded. He knew not what to do or what to 
advise. 

The ill-usage and the violence of the scenes which 
she endured from her father every hour reached 
such an extreme that one day she declared to her 
confessor that she was resolved to bear with them 
no longer. She meant to enter the convent, in spite 
of all obstacles which might present themselves. If 
Father Gil would assist her in her undertaking, she 
would escape from her father’s house, and enter im- 
mediately into that of God. He was alarmed and 
confused by such a rash resplve. He could not 
conceal from himself the fact that the young woman 
had powerful reasons for disobeying her father’s au- 
thority, and, if you like, for fleeing from it. But it 
was a very serious case. He immediately sought to 
dissuade her, counseling calm and resignation. Per- 
haps Osuna would become convinced, in time; God 
would touch his heart, and that which she so earn- 
estly longed for might be accomplished with his 
consent. 

Obdulia would not listen to him. She had al- 
ready suffered too much. God could not wish that 
she should obey a tyrannical and cruel father, who 
was himself disobeying the divine law by placing 


FAITH. 


273 


obstacles in the way of his daughter’s salvation. 
With many tears and excessive • gestures, she be- 
sought him to succor her in this strait, and that he 
would conduct her to the convent of Astudillo. 
The priest flatly refused. Again he advised her to 
be calm, and to still seek, by the gentle means of 
obedience and humility, to win her father’s consent. 
But Obdulia, driven to desperation by the latter’s 
increasing rigor, finally told him, in a conclusive 
manner, that if, in the space of a week, he had not 
made up his mind to accompany her to the convent, 
she would make her escape from the house and go 
alone. 

These words threw the mind of the young vicar 
into a state of great perturbation. It was repugnant 
to him to aid so directly in committing a disobedi- 
ence. But to consent that a father should abuse 
his authority in so barbarous a manner, should do 
violence' to the inclination of his daughter and go 
contrary to the will of God, who was calling her to 
Him, did not appear to him good either. For 
several days these opposing tendencies did battle 
within him. Obdulia saw that he was preoccupied, 
irresolute. She continued astutely to draw him to- 
ward the decision which she desired, by giving him 
to understand,' each time with more force, that, if he 
refused to accompany her, she would set off alone. 
This appeared to the vicar the height of scandal. 
Besides,^ she would expose herself to a thousand 
lamentable accidents, and perhaps to her utter 
perdition. To consent to it was to burden his con- 
science with a terrible responsibility. He thought 


274 


FAITH, 


of warning her father ; but the young woman divined 
his intention, and declared to him, firmly, that 
this step would be useless and injurious for all 
parties. As soon as she found a moment free in 
which to make her escape, she would do so, were it 
at midnight. 

Father Gil had the weakness to yield. With the 
lively imagination which characterized her, Osuna’s 
daughter set to devising the means for putting her 
project into execution. It was a peculiarity of her 
constitution, that she could never do things by 
natural and simple means. In order that it should 
turn out to her taste, everything must be involved, 
strange, violent. The plan was as follows: Father 
Gil was to go one morning to Lancia, hire a car- 
riage, and return with it at night. He was to leave 
it in the vicinity of the town, and go home to sleep. 
Very early in the morning, before dawn, she would 
come out, under pretext of going to mass, take the 
highway to Lancia, and they would meet at a place 
designated beforehand ; they would enter the car- 
riage and drive to take the train for Castile, at a 
station beyond Lancia, in order to throw her father 
off the track if he should chance to take it into his 
head to follow her. This project did not commend 
itself to the vicar ; it inspired him with a profound 
and instinctive repugnance. He made several 
objections, but the young woman promptly dis- 
posed of them with her fertile and acute^ intelli- 
gence. She made him see that any other plan would 
present more serious inconveniences ; she artfully 
palliated the points which were most likely to shock 


FAITH. 


275 


her confessor ; she stupefied him with her volubility, 
The weak and kindly character of Father Gil could 
not resist these attacks, and he finally agreed to put 
in practice that which his penitent had devised. 

One Monday in the month of April, our vicar set 
off in the coach for Lancia, under pretext of going 
to consult a medical friend on the subject of his 
indisposition. Shortly afterward, Obdulia presented 
herself in his house. They had informed Da. Josefa 
of everything. The housekeeper liked this plan no, 
better than did the vicar, and in her own mind she 
called the pious woman “ a busybody and tricky,” 
but such was the’ delight which she f^lt at the pros- 
pect of getting rid of her, that she held her tongue 
and overlooked everything. There had always ex- 
isted between the two a rivalry, which it was easy 
to explain. Obdulia, with an excuse or without one, 
had been in the habit of visiting her confessor, 
watching over his domestic welfare, sometimes put- 
ting his clothes in order, at others sending him some 
dish which he liked, and so on. This enraged Da. 
Josefa in an indescribable manner. She hated her 
like death. She said vexatious things about her 
everywhere, and, with the object of doing her harm, 
she had several times been on the point of com- 
promising her master. Accordingly, it is not strange 
that, while perceiving the full absurdity and danger 
of the escapade, she should have favored it, egging 
on Father Gil, dissipating his scruples. In it she be- 
held only a means of ridding herself forever of that 
insufferable excresence which had fastened itself 
upon her. The first thing that the young woman 


276 


FAITH. 


did was to ask the housekeeper for a small valise in 
which to pack the linen which her confessor would 
require on the journey. Da. Josefa fetched a 
traveling bag from the garret. 

“ That is very small, sefiora. It will hold noth- 
ing.” 

“ How is it small ? asked the housekeeper in 
astonishment. ‘‘ It will hold enough clothes for 
several days. How long is the Sefior Vicar going to 
remain yonder? ” 

“ A short time, only a short time,” she made haste 
to reply, with manifest perturbation, flushing scarlet. 
“ But you see, on journeys, no one knows what may 
happen. At best, the diligence or the horses may 
be lacking. An illness. Who knows?” 

“ God bless you, senorita, don’t begin to think 
of such things. I’ll go for another. You shall not 
be stopped by the lack of a valise.” 

Between them, they packed into it several changes 
of linen, shoes, combs, the breviary, and so forth, 
and so forth. When they had completed their task, 
which was certainly neither long nor difficult, 
Obdulia seated herself in the priest’s armchair, de- 
claring that she was extremely fatigued, that she 
had hardly slept the preceding night with the anx- 
iety which such a decisive resolution always occa- 
sions, and that perhaps she might be able to get a 
nap. Da. Josefa left her to repose in peace, and 
went off to attend to her duties. 

When Obdulia heard her fidgeting about below 
stairs, she rose and began to examine all the ob- 
jects in the room with a merry glance. She touched 


FAITH. 


277 


everything with her hands. Particularly those of 
the most intimate and personal use of her confessor, 
such as the combs, the pens, the matches, and so on, 
were the objects of her anxious attention ; she 
turned them about in her hands with emotion, while 
a tender and submissive smile flitted across her lips. 
A well worn band lay upon a chair. She paused 
before it, picked it up, and contemplated it for 
several moments with interest ; then, casting a 
timid glance at the door, she raised it to her lips 
two or three times, and left it where she had found 
it. She remained standing for several minutes in 
the middle of the room, with her eyes fixed on 
space, carried away by intense meditation. Her 
cheeks were rosy, her eyes brilliant ; a humble, 
shamefaced smile transfigured her faded face, lend- 
ing it a candid and virginal suavity which it had 
never possessed. If she was ever beautiful at any 
moment of her life, it was at this moment. 

An hour later, she quitted the room; she took 
leave of Da. Josefa and went home. 

Father Gil arrived at twilight ; he saw her, and 
they agreed to set off at dawn, before daylight, and 
enter the carriage which he had left in the vicinity. 
Da. Josefa sent the valises, while it was still night, 
by her nephew, to a certain poor inn, not far from 
Pefiascosa. 

A long while before the light of dawn was visible, 
Obdulia knocked discreetly at her confessor’s door. 
Da. Josefa came to open it. Father Gil was ready.. 
They drank their chocolate hastily, and after kissing 
Da. Josefa effusively, the nun-elect passed through 


278 


FAITH. 


the door and glided rapidly down the street. 
Ten minutes later, Father Gil sallied forth. The 
night was rather damp and dark. Considerable rain 
had fallen. The street was full of puddles ; the 
highway of mire. When she reached the suburbs, 
Obdulia waited for her confessor, and together they 
directed their steps to the wretched inn, where the 
carriage was waiting. On their way thither, they 
exchanged not a single word. Father Gil walked 
on, silent, taciturn, plainly exhibiting a bad humor 
which was not of frequent occurrence with him. 
The coachman took some time to harness; While 
this operation was in progress, the future nun entered 
the inn. Father Gil remained outside, looking on. 
Both were objects of great curiosity to the land- 
lady, to her children, to the shepherd, and the stable- 
boy. These people hardly took their eyes off them. 
The young priest observed that they exchanged 
various expressive and jeering glances, which put 
him to shame. He suddenly perceived the false- 
ness of his situation, the enormous folly which he 
had committed. Any other man with more char- 
acter would have beaten a retreat on the instant. 
He felt greatly inclined to do it, and hesitated as 
to whether he should tell the young woman that it 
was impossible for him to accompany her; finally, 
he dared not, and when the coachman informed him 
that all was in readiness, and Obdulia said to him, 
with her customary vivacity : “ Come, father; quick, 
in with you ! ” he entered the carriage with the 
resignation of a lamb. 

Day had begun to dawn. The horizon cleared. 


FAITH. 


279 

and a damp, warm wind, peculiar to spring, and the 
season of storms, began to blow. The carriage 
rolled along the highway, and made the mud fly in 
clouds. It was an old carriage which must have 
once belonged to a private person. Obdulia placed 
herself on the back seat, and Father Gil took the 
front seat, as far away as possible. He continued 
to be serlous'and taciturn, even more so than before. 
The young woman watched him out of the corner 
of her eye, and divining what was passing in his 
mind, remained silent as well, in a state of abstrac- 
tion from worldly concerns which should give a 
good show of her mystic thoughts. In order to aid 
in this, she said, after a silence of half an hour : 

“ Father, we have not asked San Jos^ to protect 
us on our journey.” 

“ That is true,” replied the priest, whose clear 
blue eye's were roaming abstractedly over the land- 
scape, which was beginning to unmuffle itself from 
the dark mantle of night, and to emerge fresh, beau- 
tiful and dripping from its prolonged bath. 

“ Would you like that we should recite five ‘ Our 
Fathers’ together? ” 

The priest removed his hat in silence, and began, 
in a low voice, to repeat a paternoster. Obdulia 
replied to him with genuine emotion, also in a low 
voice. The two voices formed a sweet, discreet 
murmur, which filled the soul of the young woman 
with emotion, she knew not why. She felt herself 
possessed by a strange languor, by an intimate 
felicity, which annihilated her mind or lulled it to 
slumber. The dull sound of the wheels of the car- 


28 o 


FAITH. 


riage, and the jingling of the mules, contributed to 
submerge her in this ecstatic rapture. When they 
had finished, she remained for a long time absorbed 
in herself. If she had had her way, that prayer 
would never have come to an end. 

But the young priest had put on his hat, and was 
once more staring through the window. The land- 
scape grew animated under the rosy light bf dawn. 
The wind had swept the heavy clouds to the west, 
and had left in the east a break through which the 
disk of the sun rose in -splendor. This sight sepa- 
rated him from the miserable anxiety which occu- 
pied his mind. A shiver seized upon him and 
again he fell to meditating upon the terrible fixed 
idea which for several days had been gnawing 
at his heart. Again he felt that oppressive anguish 
which swelled his breast, little by little, and threat- 
ened to suffocate him. Obdulia and everything 
around him ceased to exist. Nothing in all the 
universe remained, except his thought in face of the 
grand problem of knowledge. 

Obdulia watched him attentively, but dared not, 
for a long time, disturb his ecstasy. She thought 
he was rendered taciturn by what she had read in 
in his eyes recently, concern at having placed 
himself in a false position. Nevertheless, she ended 
by speaking to him, and she adopted a jocose tone. 
She desired to distract his thoughts at any cost. 

“You are very pensive, father. Are you 
hungry ? ” 

The priest made an effort to smile. 

“ No.” 


FAITH. 


281 


“Yes, you are: don’t deny it. And hunger 
makes us think such sad things. You shall see how 
I will rid you in one little moment of that vinegar 
face, and put in sherry amontillado. Here I have 
it in this flask.’’ 

So saying, she opened a little leather bag which 
she carried in her hand, and began to take out food 
and two or three bottles of wine and milk. 

“ I must see you with an Easter face, father,’’ she 
continued, as she removed the white papers in 
which she had wrapped slices of meat, fish patties, 
and so forth. “ When I see you with this wrinkle 
here — here,’’ and she touched his brow with her 
finger : the priest drew back hastily — “ you: make me 
sadder than the night. Why shall it be ? Why 
shall it not be ? You who know so much, shall tell 
me.” ’ 

She uttered the last words in a sing-song tone, 
and with affected abstraction. 

“ Well, then ! I am going to set the table. Hold 
your legs very, very still, for I need them at this 
moment.” 

She placed her knees against those of the priest, 
spread a napkin upon them, and set the viands in 
place. The flasks of wine she placed on the floor. 

It seems to me that there is no necessity for get- 
ting the forks out, is there? We will be humble. 
Let us eat with our fingers.” 

“ Is it humility, or is it because it tastes better 
so?” asked Father Gil, with a smile. Obdulia 
broke into a laugh. 

“You are my confessor, I cannot tell you a lie. 


282 


FAITH. 


It suits me much better. It is one of the few dirty 
things which pleases me.” 

“ That is not humility either,” said the confessor, 
still smiling. 

“ Come, come, don’t snarl at me, and eat grace- 
fully — that is, if you know how — for I see that you 
do not. But, my dear creature ! What are you 
doing — taking mouthfuls of that bit of pollock with- 
out removing, the spines ? Don’t you see that one 
may stick fast in your throat? Give it here — ” and 
she snatched it from his hands as she spoke. “ You 
shall see how I will strip them all off, so that not 
one shall remain. I mean — that is, if my fingers will 
not disgust you.” 

Father Gil hastened to make signs in the nega- 
tive. 

“ They are just out of my gloves. Besides,” she 
exclaimed with a laugh, “you are very fond of me, 
and it will taste the better to you for having passed 
through my hands. What a silly thing I am ! Am 
I not, father? ” she added, lowering her voice. 

“ Silly, no. Rather giddy, yes,” replied the priest, 
accompanying the words with a smile, in order to 
deprive them of their harshness. 

The young woman flushed scarlet. The conver- 
sation became more serious. 

About nine o’clock, they described the towers of 
Lancia, and the great black curtain of mountains 
which shut in the horizon. The sky was clear. A 
warm wind blew from the south. The morning 
presented that exquisite mildness which is observa- 
ble in some spring days. 


FAITH. 


283 

Father Gil ordered the coachman to pass near 
the town, without entering, and drive to the first 
station on the railway, distant from it about one 
league. He had decided to take the train there, by 
way of greater precaution. The station was called 
La Reguera — the Canal. It was eleven o’clock when 
they arrived. They must wait two hours and a 
half, since 'the train did not pass until twenty min- 
utes of two. 

La Reguera was situated at the extremity of a 
picturesque and smiling valley. From the station, 
which stood on a lofty terrace, it was all perfectly 
visible. It was encircled by a girdle of gently 
swelling hills, clothed in trees and meadows, and 
behind these by another girdle of bare and lofty 
mountains, whose reddish hues formed a beautiful 
contrast with the green of spring. In the plain 
there was a most capricious mosaic of meadows 
with boundary lines of hazel-nut trees, fields of 
maize and groves. Through its center flowed ma- 
jestically a broad crystalline river, which, irradiated 
by the sun, seemed a great, glittering band of silver. 
As soon as they had dismissed the coachman, 
Obdulia proposed to her confessor that they should 
descend to the plain and there await the arrival of 
the train. He accepted in anguish, for the sake of 
escaping the glances of the people at the station. 
They descended by a steep, narrow path, and en- 
tered a grove of chestnut trees which extended to the 
brink of the river. The priest observed that it was 
very damp, but the young woman walked forward 
uttering cries of delight, striding into the grass up 


284 


FAITH. 


to her knees, clapping her hands like a child let out 
of school. The great crests of the chestnut trees 
were not yet clothed with the foliage which they 
display in summer. The rays of the sun, passing 
athwart their bare branches, drank up the fresh 
water which formed pools at their feet among the 
turf. 

Obdulia did not pause until she had reached the 
pebbly slope which served as margin to the river. 
There she came to a halt, turned her face round, and 
gazed with smiling mien at her confessor, who was 
advancing with precaution, placing his feet carefully 
on the dryest spots. Her face was flushed with 
running, her hair ruffled, and her great black eyes 
sparkled with an expression of genuine pleasure. 

“Come on, coward ! Are you afraid to wet your 
feet ? ” 

“ And if you catch a catarrh, how will you be 
able to withstand the hard life during the year of 
your noviciate ? ” replied the priest, approaching. 

A cloud passed over the eyes of the young 
woman, and she suddenly became serious. Then, 
making an effort to be animated, she said : 

“ Why do not you venture to unfasten this boat, 
that we may take a row upon the river?” 

“ No, indeed.” 

“Then I will. You shall see.” 

A large, decrepit old bark, which served to trans- 
port the peasants from one shore to the other on 
market days, lay fastened to the shore by a chain, 
under some rushes on the marshy ground which 
overhung it. 


FAITH. 


285 


“ Ay, what a pity ! ” exclaimed the godly young 
woman, grasping the chain in her hands. “ It is 
fastened with a padlock! ” 

“ I am glad of it. It will prevent your com- 
mitting a piece of folly.” 

“But I do not renounce my idea of floating a 
little. I shall get into it. I come from a seaport 
and the water is my element.” 

No sooner said than done. She leaped with deci- 
sion into the bark, which inclined to one side to re- 
ceive her ; she stepped across the benches to the 
stern, and seated herself there. 

“ Oh ! how pleasant it is here, in the shade ! And 
it rocks a little too. Come, father. You can hope 
for nothing better anywhere.” 

The priest also leaped over the two benches, and 
seated himself not far from her. The shade was 
really grateful at that midday hour. The current 
rocked the boat gently, and produced as it splashed 
against it a soft an^ crystalline lapping which in- 
vited to slumber. After congratulating themselves 
on their good fortune in finding so agreeable a seat, 
and exchanging a few phrases, both relapsed into 
silence. Obdulia bent her body over the water, and 
fixed her eyes upon it with a melancholy expres- 
sion. Father Gil allowed his to rove over the hori- 
zon, glancing, without seeing them, along the line 
of lofty mountains which isolated the valley from 
the rest of the world. And, as was always the 
case when he remained abstracted for a moment, 
that fatal doubt began to float before his mind 
again. 


286 


FAITH. 


What was all this which lay around him ? A 
pure representation of his thought, a product of 
himself, a dream perhaps — a dream ! While we are 
asleep we also see, we touch and feel, exactly as 
when we are awake. Why should life not be a 
long dream ? The difference which Kant establishes 
between sleeping and waking seemed to him frag- 
ile. For the concatenation of appearance exists 
in the one the same as in the other. The only 
thing which breaks this chain of appearances is the 
act of waking. But many times, on awakening, we 
confound the things which have happened in our 
dreams with the things of reality. Does not this 
indicate with sufficient clearness that everything 
has the same origin and foundation ? What reason 
have we for saying that the latter are real, and that 
the others are not ? 

He was drawn from his intense fneditation by the 
voice of Obdulia, who had been watching him for 
several minutes. 

“ Come, father ; think no more of that and tell 
me truly whether it is not to your taste here? " 

“ Of what is it that I am not to think, my 
daughter? ’ replied the priest, flushing slightly, as 
though he had been found out. 

“ Of that ! I do not know what it is, but it must 
be something bad when it makes you wrinkle your 
brow and open your eyes wide in terror, as though 
you beheld a spirit from the other world before you. 
Come, think of me a little, seeing that I have com- 
mitted myself to your care." 

“ I do think of you. Have I not just warned you 


FAITH. 287 

not to wet your feet ? But you pay no heed,” he 
replied, with a kindly smile. 

“That is it! You remember me only to scold 
me. You have become a very great grumbler, fa- 
ther! Formerly, you used to be more cowardly, 
more gentle ; you used so many circumlocutions in 
everything you said, for fear of offending one. But 
now! never mind, you never beat round the bush at 
all! You have learned thoroughly how to scold. 
Of course,” she added, changing her tone and draw- 
ing nearer to him, “ this manner pleases me more. 
I like to have my confessor keep a firm hand on the 
bridle, to have him severe and hard with me. You 
reprove me but little, father. I should be glad to 
have you more severe, to have you chastise me vig- 
orously, and even beat me, that I might prove to 
you well my submission.” 

She uttered the last words in a trembling voice 
and with a shamefaced look, riveting on her con- 
fessor a gaze of timid adoration. His face expressed 
perturbation and disgust. He turned his face away 
and preserved silence. 

At the expiration of a few minutes, the godly 
young woman, who was staring at the water in a 
melancholy way, said with repressed impulsive- 
ness : 

“ What would I not give if the chain which 
holds this boat would only break and the cur- 
rent would carry me away, far, very far away! 
where I should see nothing which I have seen 
hitherto, where everything which I imagine should 
be realized on the instant. Ah! I should like to 


288 


FAITH. 


halt in a valley smaller than this one, but more 
smiling also ; the sky always blue, the earth covered 
with flowers and beautiful animals who would 
come to feed from my hand. And to live there 
alone with God and the persons whom I should 
choose to accompany me. To live amid the fields 
and to hear what the trees say when the wind agi- 
tates their crests, and what the fountains murmur, 
and what the birds warble, and what the insects 
hum. To walk about always escorted by a guard of 
God's little birds, who should sing to us and show 
us the road, and delight us with their singing, in- 
toxicated by the perfume of the flowers, inundated 
with light, wrapped in the caress of an eternal 
spring. That is what I used to dream when I was'^ 
fourteen years old. And to-day, without knowing 
why, I have begun to dream it once more. But ; 
no," she added, in a deep voice, after a pause, knit- j 
ting her pallid brow vigorously, “ it would be better i 
if the bark were to bear me to some obscure grotto j 
amid inaccessible cliffs, and there upset and bury ^ 
me in its black waves, so that nothing more might 
ever be heard of me. In that way, my sufferings 
would cease at once." • 

As she uttered the last words, she raised her hands 
to her face, and began to sob. 

Father Gil gazed at her for a moment, with stern, 
eyes. 

“What you have just said is a great impiety,‘and 
the greater and more abominable because it comes 
from a mouth which is so soon to pronounce sacred 
vows." 


FAITH. 289 

“ Pardon me, father. These are dreams, nothing 
more.” 

“ Ask pardon of God, and prepare yourself in a 
more respectful manner to become his bride.” 

As Father Gil said this gravely, he rose and 
quitted the boat. Obdulia followed him, her hand- 
kerchief pressed to her eyes. 

They ascended once more to the station. They 
took ,some broth in a neighboring wine and pro- 
vision shop, and waited for the arrival of the train, 
which was not long in coming. There was no vacant 
carriage, but in one there was only one person, and 
they entered it. The train started again instantly. 
The traveler glanced at them in an absent-minded 
way, with but little curiosity, probably imagining 
that they were brother and sister. But after a few 
moments, the young woman asked her confessor to 
take her valise down from the netting, that she might 
get out a handkerchief. The^traveler observed that 
they addressed each other as “you ” ceremoniously, 
and then examined them with eager attention. 
Father Gil became perturbed beneath his fixed, in- 
quisitive gaze. Fortunately, the man got out at the 
third station. But he still watched them, from his 
post on the sidewalk, wounding them with his eyes 
until the train started. 

Both maintained an obstinate silence. Father Gil 
no longer felt himself carried away by metaphysics ; 
he began to be tormented by an indefinable sense of 
uneasiness, which filled his soul with tremors and 
vague presentiments. He was conscious of a singu- 
lar shame since the traveler who had alighted had 


290 


FAITH. 


observed them with such persistency. This girl 
inspired him with alarm. A throng of evil, mad 
thoughts rushed to his brain, and filled it with con- 
fusion. His cheeks were inflamed, his eyes terrified. 
He tried to avoid meeting the eyes of his penitent, 
which he felt resting constantly upon him. 

There came a moment when, through irresistible 
attraction or by chance, their glances met. The 
young woman indulged in a slight, malicious smile. 
The priest promptly removed his eyes, and remained 
grave, as though he had not perceived her. After a 
while, their eyes met again, they knew not how, and 
again the devout young woman broke into a laugh, 
as she gazed merrily at him. Father Gil paid no 
heed to her, and turned his face toward the window. 
But Obdulia exclaimed : 

“ Don’t you know, father, what I am laughing 
at ? ” 

“You may tell me,” the priest replied gravely, 
without turning his head. 

“ At you.” 

“Why?” he replied, naturally and modestly. 

“ Because I divine perfectly what you are thinking 
about. You are afraid of the coming of night, like 
children. You are beginning to be violent with a 
woman who is not yet old, and you repent of having 
consented to accompany me.” 

“You are not very far from the truth,” replied 
the priest firmly. 

Obdulia was a little abashed ; but she ’immedi- 
ately retorted : 

“ That is a proof of your great modesty, father. 


FAITH. 


291 


A holy man like you need fear nothing in any situa- 
tion. I, without being a saint, am perfectly tran- 
quil.” 

These words pleased • Father Gil. He replied 
kindly, and, becoming a little more serene and con- 
fident, he entered into conversation with her again, 
trying to appear familiar and jocose, the more so as 
he desired to remove the sense of discomfort and dis- 
quiet which hovered over them. 

They said the Angelas together. Then they 
supped on the provisions which they had with 
them. During supper, Obdulia was merry and 
opportune in her conversation. The priest followed 
her humor with a certain affectation, to conceal the 
embarrassment which weighed upon him, in spite 
of himself. 

Night had closed in, a superb Castillian night, 
cold and azure, lighted by the rays of the moon, 
which transformed the plain into a vast, sleeping 
lake. The train was running at full speed through 
the middle of it, disturbing the enchantment of that 
sweet and tranquil splendor with its strident 
whistles and the rumble of its progress. The tall 
poplar trees seemed to float above the plain like 
ghosts enveloped in the white crape of the mist. 

At length the windows of the carriage became cov- 
ered with steam. Obdulia separated from her con- 
fessor and coiled herself up in a corner, shivering 
with cold. Then she began to make sketches on 
the pane with her finger. She wrote her name, 
Obdulia Osuna; then that of her confessor, Gil 
Lastra. And returning to her corner, she nestled 


292 


FAITH. 


down in it again. Father Gil, who had read the 
two names clearly from his seat, approached the 
window, under the pretext of stretching his legs, 
and wrote beneath his, in pUin letters : “ priest.” An 
interval of silence intervened, both appeared to be 
dozing. At last Obdulia said; “With your per- 
mission, I shall go to bed for a while, father. l am 
sleepy.” 

And she stretched herself out on the cushions, 
throwing a cloak across her limbs. 

“ Ay ! Ay ! ” she cried, after the lapse of a few 
minutes. “How my shoes hurt me! Evidently, 
I got them wet first, and then placed them over the 
heater, and they have shrunk ! Come, father,” she 
added, with a gracious smile, “ serve as my maid, 
for once. Take them off, for I cannot.” 

A flood of crimson rushed to the cheeks of the 
priest. He hesitated for a moment. “ Come, 
father,” she persisted, “be humble, like all the 
saints. The Pope washes the feet of the poor ; you 
may well remove my shoes.” 

Father Gil rose, and, red as a poppy, began with 
trembling hand to take off the shoes of his spiritual 
daughter. She watched him with a malicious smile. 

“ Many thanks, father. Now do me the favor 
to wrap my legs up in the cloak. So ; that’s per- 
fect. Now lie down a while yourself, and make no 
noise.” 

The priest replied to all this with a forced smile, 
settled himself in the opposite corner, and suddenly 
became veiy grave and frowned violently. A terrible 
uneasiness took possession of his mind* The es' 


FAITH, 


293 


capade continued to appear to him as a piece of 
giddiness, which he found more and more unpardon- 
able. That woman had neither a true vocation for 
the life of a nun, nor did she show any signs of ever 
having it. Hers was a frivolous, malicious, violent 
temperament, which was capable of any atrocity. 
What folly to have yielded to her importunity ! 
He confessed that he deserved, in some small degree, 
that which he was enduring, for his zeal in getting 
rid of her at any cost. But as there was no longer 
time to turn back, the important point was to leave 
her in the convent as soon as possible, and to this 
he would direct all his energies. Obdulia appeared 
to be sleeping. But her eyes opened, from time to 
time, to take a look, and emitted a sudden blaze, 
which was both jeering and mischievous. 

They reached Palencia at nine o’clock. They had 
themselves conducted to a modest inn. Before they 
retired, each to his own chamber. Father Gil wished 
to arrange all that was necessary for undertaking the 
trip to Astudillo on the following day. He ordered 
horses to be engaged, he informed himself as to 
the road which they must take, of the time which 
they would be delayed, and so forth. He wished 
to leave everything in readiness, in spite of Obdulia’s 
hinting to him that there was no such haste. As it 
was a question of only a short journey, it was easy 
to regulate everything for the morrow. But the 
vicar could not conceal his anxiety to have done 
with this business. 

He rose very early, but dared not give the young 
woman notice. He allayed his impatience by 


294 


FAITH. 




prayer, by pacing his chamber, by goingto the man 
of whom he had hired the horses, to make sure that 
they were in readiness. Finally, about ten o’clock, he 
ventured to send a message by the maid, to inquire 
whether Obdulia were ready to set out. The reply 
which the woman brought back was that the young 
lady was not yet risen, because she had caught a 
little cold, but that when she did rise, she would let 
him know so that they might set out on their jour- 
ney. 

This news afflicted Father Gil greatly, though he 
could not say why he felt a profound disgust, and 
a presentiment of catastrophe. An hour later he 
received another message from her, advising him to 
breakfast alone, and afterward to come to her 
chamber, since she would then be dressed' and 
ready. He did so, growing more and more uneasy 
every moment, and more oppressed with a sense of 
coming misfortune. When he entered the young 
woman’s room he found her really risen, but by no 
means disposed to depart. She was dressed in an 
elegant morning gown, and her hair was caught up 
in a white net, with bows of crimson silk. She was 
tolerably pale, and her eyes showed signs of her 
having wept. 

Father Gil halted at the door and knitted his 
brows. 

“ Enter, father, and sit down here in this arm- 
chair,* she said from her low chair, gazing sweetly at 
him. I am well. I have passed a very bad night.” 

‘‘Have you coughed asked the' vicar, seating 
himself. 


FAITH. 


295 


“No. I spent the whole time in weeping.’^ 

The priest stared at her in stupefaction. 

“ How is that, my daughter?” 

Obdulia raised her handkerchief to her eyes and 
made no answer. After a long silence, she dropped 
her handkerchief, grasped her confessor’s hand, 
kissed it repeatedly with effusion, and moistened it 
with tears, exclaiming: 

“ I am very unhappy.” 

Father Gil tried to withdraw his hand, but the 
pious young woman clung the more closely to it. 

“No, do not take your hand from me, father: 
that hand which has so often absolved me from my 
sins, and which now, alas ! can neither absolve me 
or drag me from the abyss into which I have fallen.” 

“ Calm yourself, daughter,” replied the priest, 
who was impressed. “ Perhaps you repent of your 
decision ! That does not signify that you have 
fallen into the abyss. Everything can be arranged 
without scandal. You have a year’s novitiate, in 
which you can leave the convent whenever you de- 
sire it.” 

Obdulia covered her face with her hands once^ 
more, and said between her sobs : 

“ It is not that. It is something worse. I have 
a secret, father ; a secret which has weighed upon 
my heart for a long time, and which is suffocating 
me.” 

Father Gil remained in suspense for a few mo- 
ments, then he said : 

“ If you desire it, we will go to the church and I 
will hear your confession.” 


296 


FAITH. 


“No, no. You can no longer be my confessor.’* 
And raising her brow abruptly, with pallid cheeks 
and dry and brilliant eyes, in which a desperate 
resolution was depicted, she continued I know 
very well, father, that I am destined to weep all my 
life long. I know, also, that, after this life, an 
eternity of torment probably awaits me. But de- 
spair takes no account of torments, and fears noth- 
ing. It has but one thought. All the rest is 
annihilated. I have deceived you, father. I do 
not wish to be, nor can I be, the bride of Jesus 
Christ, because I should be unfaithful to my vows. 
I cherish in my soul, in its most hidden and sacred 
recess, a love to which I shall be faithful all my life. 
That love is my delight and my torment. For two 
years I have lived dying all the while a sweet death, 
for I adore my own sufferings. For two years I 
have wept in silence, but my tears are sweet, and I 
drink them with pleasure. Without being aware of 
it, father, you have been slowly poisoning me ; but far 
from abhorring you, I love you. I adore you with all 
my soul. I have tried to tear from my heart that 
Jove which is consuming me. I have beaten my 
breast, I have martyrized my flesh. You know it 
well, father. Then I became convinced that it was 
useless, and I allowed it to flourish in my heart. 
The will of God be done. I know that I am con- 
demned, but I love you. I love thee ! I love thee 
more than my salvation ! Take me away whither 
thou wilt, but do not separate me from thee. Let 
me be thy servant. Let me kiss the ground on 
which thou treadest.” 


FAITH. 297 

She fell on her knees in front of her counselor, 
with her face buried in her hands. 

The vivid crimson with which it was flooded was 
visible between her slender fingers. Father Gil 
sprang abruptly to his feet, pallid as a dead man, 
with terror depicted in his eyes. His lips trembled, 
without doubt on the point of thundering forth 
some very harsh phrase, but he did not succeed in 
giving it utterance. 

He heard a noise at the door. He. turned his 
head in dismay, and a stifled cry of shame burst 
from his throat. At the door stood Osuna, D, Mar- 
tin de las Casas and D. Peregrin Casanova. 

“ Here are the turtle doves ! ” shouted D. Martin, 
in a stentorian voice. 

Father Gil retreated, with terrified eyes. 

“ What is this ? What is going on ? My daughter ! 
Good Heavens ! ” exclaimed Osuna, hastening to as- 
sure himself of her identity. 

“ Listen, you dirty, crop-eared brute! ” ejaculated 
D. Peregrin, addressing the vicar. “ What sort of 
a situation is this for a priest.^ Do not you blush 
with shame? ” 

D. Martin de las Casas seized him by the arm 
with his left hand and, thrusting him against the 
wall, broke forth into injurious expressions, in a 
pompous voice, brandishing his cudgel the while. 

“ Measly beast ! A pretty position you have left 
these people in, who raised you from the dust! 
Miserable maggot, I ought to crush you flat and 
fling you into the street like a mass of skin with a 
little flesh for the dogs to eat! You ought to be 


FAITH. 


298 

nailed to the wall by your ears, and exposed to pub- 
lic shame. I ought, at least, to break your ribs with 
this cudgel, and I have a great mind to do it ! ” 

It would not have been difficult to satisfy, or 
rather, it is almost certain that the energetic veteran 
would have satisfied his inordinate appetite foi 
tlirashing his fellow-men, on this occasion as on so 
many others, had not the landlady interposed at 
that moment. 

“What are you about to do, sir? Maltreat a 
priest ! Such a scandal shall not happen in my 
house ! " 

Having somewhat recovered from his astonish- 
ment, Father Gil said in a firm voice : 

“ Gentlemen, I accompanied this young woman 
hither at her request, because she desires to enter a 
convent and consecrate herself to God, to which her 
father has offered opposition without reason or right, 
and because of which he maltreated her most bar- 
barously." 

“ I maltreat my daughter, you scoundrel ! ” 
shrieked the hunchback in the height of indigna- 
tion. “ You lie, and anyone lies who says so. I did 
not even know that she wished to enter a convent, 
neither should I have opposed it.” 

Father Gil was astounded, and could not utter a 
word, for Osuna’s accents denoted sincerity. 

“ I think what is proper in this case,” announced 
D. Peregrin, in his snuffling administrative voice, 
“ is to give immediate information of the affair to 
the civil authorities. When I was governor of Tarra- 
gona, a priest presented himself to me ” 


PAITIf. 


299 


Have done with Tarragona, D. Peregrin,” inter- 
rupted Seftor de las Casas. “And you, D. Gil, the 
enamored, go to the infernal regions, if you like.” 

“To say that I maltreat my daughter because she 
wishes to become a nun!” Osuna continued to ex- 
claim in a low voice, as he aided the landlady. 
“ Scoundrel, worse than scoundrel ! ” 

“ Forgive me, Senor Osuna. I thought it was 
the case,” said the priest. 

“ Good, good. We will settle that question in 
Pefiascosa,” ejaculated D. Martin, with characteris- 
tic energy. “ Now, get out of here! get out ! ” 
Father Gil directed his steps toward the door, 
but just as he was about to pass through it, D. Mar- 
tin shouted at him, as though he stood in front of a 
battalion: “Halt! Friend Osuna,” he said, ad- 
dressing the hunchback, “a grave insult has been 
inflicted on you, and you cannot appear decently un- 
less you now box the ears of the person who has 
offended you. [Pointing to Father Gil.] ” 

An embarrassing silence ensued. Osuna's face 
expressed discomfort and hesitation. 

“ Never mind, never mind,” continued the fero- 
cious veteran, with his resonant voice, like the actor 
of old men’s parts in a theater, “you are not a man 
of honor, you have not a jot of shame if you leave 
this offense unchastized.” 

Osuna still hesitated for a moment, and cast a 
glance of entreaty at the veteran ; but on beholding 
that terror inspiring countenance, he finally made 
up his mind. Rising on tiptoe he delivered are- 
sounding slap on the cheek of the priest. 


300 


FAITH. 


“Jesus!" exclaimed the landlady. “This is an 
iniquity ! " 

Father Gil turned excessively pale; two tears 
rose to his eyes, but he made no motion to fling 
himself on his aggressor. 


XIII. 


Thanks to Obdulia’s resolute action the matter 
was not brought before the courts. From the very 
first moment, she confessed that she was the author of 
the flight and the sole person responsible ; the vicar 
had committed no fault in accompanying her, after 
her incessant entreaties and her making use of the 
artifice of ill treatment at home. D. Peregrin 
Casanova, desirous no doubt of proving that he 
cherished no ill-will toward Osuna for certain past 
scenes, continued to advocate that judicial proceed- 
ings should be begun. They had been reconciled 
for a long time already. In Pefiascosa, private 
individuals insulted each other publicly, called each 
other scoundrel, wretch, etcetera, etcetera, and a 
week later, they could be seen taking coffee together. 
But this is not a peculiarity of Pefiascosa. The 
same thing happens in Sarrid and in Nieva. Other- 
wise, how would life be possible in those illustrious 
towns ? 

All the sensible persons in town were opposed to 
D. Peregrin's ideas ; some through affection for the 
vicar, some through timidity, others because they 
saw no use in stirring up a scandal. Nearly all ad- 
vised Osuna to remain quiet. Nevertheless, the Ene- 
mies, let us rather say the enviers, of the vicar, were 
horribly agitated. They were not willing to assent 


301 


302 


FAITH. 


to the damsel’s version. They believed that it was a 
fable invented by her to shield him ; and if they did 
not believe it, they declared that they did, lower- 
ing their voices and smiling maliciously. They 
showered sarcasms on the priest and his spiritual 
daughter, and they set afloat in the town a thou- 
sand more or less ingenious jests concerning their 
journey. 

It is easy to divine that the person who labored 
most earnestly in this propaganda, although in a 
crafty manner, was Father Narciso. The chaplain 
from Sarrid was not content with having humiliated 
his rival by wrestling from him the office of coadjutor, 
which, in justice, belonged to him. He desired, at 
any cost, to make an end of him, to grind him to 
dust, that his name might never more be heard in 
the mouths of the pious women of Peflascosa. 

The occasion appeared to him very opportune to 
this end. With this object in view, he spontane- 
ously accosted Osuna, and inquired whether he did 
not mean to have recourse to the courts ? When 
he learned that this was not possible, because 
Obdulia assumed the entire responsibility, and de- 
clared that she had deceived her confessor, he felt a 
profound affliction. Such was his eagerness to exter- 
minate Father Gil, that, although his relations with 
Obdulia had been strained for a long time, and might 
even be designated as open hostility, he ventured to 
sound her. Three or four days after her return to 
Pefiascosa he saw her one morning in church. He 
sent an acolyte to her, to say that he desired to 
speak with her, and that he was waiting for her in 


FAITH. 


303 

the vestry. The young woman went thither, though 
very much against her will. The coadjutor made 
himself all honey ; he treated her with extreme 
affection ; he handled his adulation with spirit, for 
he knew that self-esteem was a quick and tender 
spot with her. When he thought that he had 
rendered her tractable, he represented to her, with 
much circumlocution, that he, in his quality of 
assistant rector, was charged with the duty of 
watching over the honor of all his parishioners ; 
that hers had been matter for gossip in the mouths 
of the town for several days, and that it weighed 
upon his soul, because of the special affection which 
he entertained for her. It afflicted him all the 
more because he was sure that she had given no 
cause for it. He was acquainted with her generous 
character, her noble spirit ; hence he was convinced 
that on this occasion, as on so many others, she had 
sacrificed herself for other people. Now, this sacri- 
fice was not permissible ; it might be regarded as a 
sin. Our honor does not belong to us ; it is com- 
mitted to our keeping by God, and we are under 
obligations to defend it. On the other hand, the 
dishonor fell not only on her, but on her aged 
father. The poor old man beheld himself the 
object of ridicule and gossip in town on this 
account. Still more ; although such a trait of gen- 
erosity might be accepted as good, both she and her 
father were members of the church, and it was their 
duty to denounce to the ecclesiastical authorities, 
any priest who should transgress the limits of his 
functions, in the exercise of his ministry, that he 


304 


FAITH. 


might receive the condign and fraternal punishment 
which the canons prescribe. This redounded to the 
good of the faith. She, so excellent a Christian, 
ought not to permit God’s justice to be mocked at. 
He understood perfectly how painful it would be 
for her to declare herself against her confessor ; but 
it was a greater sacrifice than the one which she was 
then executing, and God would surely reward her 
for it. Moreover, she must take into account the 
fact that her denunciation of her confessor would 
not cause him any injury ; on the contrary, the 
chastisement of the Church is considered as a good, 
as a just expiation, which, when it is accompanied 
by repentance, redeems the sin and frees us from 
the pains of hell. 

Poor Father Narciso did not know with whom he 
had to deal, in spite of his having been intimate 
with her for so long. Before he had uttered a word, 
Obdulia knew what he was going to say to her, and 
also in what form, more or less ; she knew him as 
well as though she had passed her life inside his 
brain. That monkish skill made up of common 
places, was shattered against the lively imagination 
and the subtle and perspicacious mind of the devout 
young woman. She replied to the priest in the 
same persuasive, unctuous tone which she had 
adopted. She had nothing of which she could 
accuse Father Gil, who was a saint, an exceptional 
being, whose splendor had served as a beacon in the 
parish, ever since his fortunate arrival there, and 
whose modesty, abnegation, and piety might serve 
as an example and a stimulus to his colleagues. But 


FAITH. 


305 


even had she any cause for accusing him, she should 
take very good care not to do so, knowing that the 
scandal would profit most to the enemies of religion. 
The error of a woman, when she is unmarried, re- 
dounds solely to her own prejudice. ' That of a 
priest results in a loss of prestige to his class and to 
the deterioration of the Catholic religion. She 
added various other reasons, and among them more 
than one pointed phrase of double meaning, which 
she knew seared the new coadjutor to the quick. 

“ Well, good-by, D. Narciso, and forgive me if I 
have not been able to comprehend thoroughly your 
charitable intentions. I am a weak woman, and I 
do not understand theology.” 

Father Narciso was left grinning like a rabbit. 
Perceiving that' this road was barred to him, he en- 
tered resolutely on another, no less tortuous. D. 
Joaquin, the chaplain and steward of Sefiora de 
Barrado, as well as Father Melchor, born enemies of 
the young vicar, vomited venom against him. But 
there were various other ecclesiastics in Peflascosa, 
who had always remained impartial. He contrived 
to win over the latter by representing the affair to 
them from another point of view, assuring them that 
he had secret reasons for knowing the facts. The 
journey had been a real abduction frustrated. The 
girl was sacrificing herself. The vicar had conceived 
a sacrilegious passion. Fora long time he, D. Nar- 
ciso, had expected what had come to pass. The 
escapade had been planned three months before- 
hand, and so forth, and so on. He filled their heads 
with wind. The position which he occupied as 


3o6 


FAITH. 


rector, in fact if not in justice, greatly facilitated 
this winning over. It was agreed by the majority of 
all the ecclesiastics in town that the vicar was a 
wretched, insignificant lad, without weight or grav- 
ity, who had depreciated the sacerdotal caste, and 
that God knows where he would stop, if the bishop 
did not take a hand in the game. 

From that time forth, they lost no opportunity to 
show their scorn for him. There is nothing which 
gives human nature so much pleasure as scorn. 
They began to salute him coldly, then to turn away 
their heads, then not to answer him. When he 
entered the vestry, he observed that, if there were 
other priests present, they held aloof from him, and 
formed a group by themselves. If he went to don 
his vestments, to say mass, he found the wardrobe 
containing the vestments locked, on most days ; he 
was obliged to wait until D. Narciso arrived, and 
ask him for the key. They cut him out of the 
functions, whenever that was possible ; they did not 
invite him to the gaudearnus which they celebrated. 
In short, they annoyed him in every form and man- 
ner which they could devise. And these were 
sufficiently numerous. 

Father Gil was surprised and vexed by this dis- 
dain. Seeing that his colleagues got on without 
him, he dispensed with their company without great 
grief. He talked only with Father Norberto and D. 
Miguel. The old rector, who had been deprived of 
the chief dignity in fact, maintained his rights with 
tenacity none the less, and invented a thousand 
schemes to demonstrate it to the neighborhood. 


FAITH. . 


307 


Between him and D. Narciso there existed a pro- 
found, ferocious enmity. But the latter was afraid 
of him. The old chieftain of the Carlist army was 
capable, if slightly irritated, of horsewhipping him in 
the church itself. D. Miguel triumphed through 
terror. Father Narciso affected to despise him, but 
always behind his back. To his face, he treated 
him with extreme consideration, and endured with 
patience the rudeness which the latter poured out 
upon him from time to time. And when the coad- 
jutor chanced to say, as he preached to, the par- 
ishioners, at the offertory of the mass: “ It is incum- 
bent upon us rectors, etcetera,” D. Miguel, from 
his nook where he listened to the mass, ejaculated in 
a tolerably loud voice, so that those who stood near 
could hear him : “ I am the rector ! I am the 
rector ! ” 

As they emerged together one day from the church. 
Father Gil, who had just received a forcible rebuff 
from his colleagues, mentioned it to him, not as 
though in complaint, but as though he were com- 
municating a piece of information. 

“ Pay no attention to them,” replied the old chief- 
tain, laying his hand, wrinkled and dry as a faggot 
of vine cuttings, on his shoulder. “ They are mag- 
pies. They live tied to the petticoats of the pious 
women, like cats. See here : when I come from say- 
ing mass as now, and return home, I never fail to 
launch at them half a dozen. But if you are 
aggrieved, you can run up to a dozen, without impro- 
priety.” 

A brutal burst of laughter, resembling a roar, 


FAITH. 


308 

shook his vigorous breast as he uttered these words. 
His eyes gleamed with frank, cordial joy. The 
vicar flushed as red as a cherry, and remained silent. 
He did not again attempt to make a confidant of 
him on that point. 

His inner life caused him too much torment to 
leave him much time for thinking of these trifles. 
Skepticism was undermining him secretly. The 
world appeared to him more incomprehensible every 
day. The constant idea that everything which sur- 
rounded him was mere appearance, whose real sense 
would remain eternally unknown to man, engend- 
ered in his soul a profound melancholy, which was 
reflected in his pallid brow, in the sad and indifferent 
smile which hovered on his lips. All experience, 
said Kant, is nothing more than a knowledge of the 
phenomenon, not a thing in itself. The latter hides 
itself and will hide itself forever, to human reason. 
Plato had also said it before him. The things of 
this world, such as our senses perceive them, have no 
reality. While we shut ourselves up exclusively in 
sensible perception, we are like prisoners seated in 
an obscure cavern ; so strongly chained that we can- 
not turn our heads. They see nothing. They only 
perceive, on the wall opposite them, the light of the 
fire, which burns behind them the shadows of the 
things which pass between them and the fire. And 
they themselves are not seen either, except as 
shadows cast on the wall. Our science, then, is re- 
duced and always will be reduced, to predicting, in 
accordance with experience, the order in which the 
shadows will follow each other. 


FAITH. 


309 


Sad results after so many efforts ! The entire 
universe appeared to him like a fugitive shadow 
which vanishes with the individual who gazes upon 
it. It is the Maya, as the Vedas say, it is the veil 
of illusion which, covering the eyes of mortals, 
makes them behold a world of which they cannot 
say that it exists or that it does not exist, a world 
which resembles a dream, the radiation of the sun 
on the sand, where the traveler believes that he de- 
scries a lake from afar. Having lost faith, not 
only in his reason, but also in his feelings, the life 
of our priest swept on indifferently, silently, in the 
midst of an infinite loathing. 

Obdulia had not seen him during the fortnight 
following her return. The pious young woman 
went out very little, for reasons easy to understand, 
and she managed to go to the church at hours when 
the vicar was not there. This last was not precisely 
the result of shame, but on account of the same 
amorous sentiment, which continued to agitate her 
heart. She believed, and reasons for her belief were 
not lacking, that, assuming the gossip that was in 
circulation in the town, and the war of all the ec- 
clesiastics, and principally that x>f D. Narciso, any 
approach to her confessor would compromise him. 
'riius she imposed upon herself this sacrifice with 
the satisfaction of suffering for the adored being. 
But it became a torment which was beyond her 
strength. Her mad passion, instead of subsiding, 
grew more exalted day by day. She no longer 
lived, except upon the image of the young vicar. 
She even beheld it in her sleep. And her lawless 


310 


FAITH, 


fancy forged an endless chain of illusions. She 
gave herself up to the thought that Father Gil re- 
turned her love, and in order to believe this, she 
wrenched all his words and actions out of joint. 
Once he had pressed her hand with fierce force, 
again he had smiled on her from a distance, on an- 
other occasion he had blushed when he met her, and 
so forth, and so on. She converted everything into 
substance. Then .the trip to Palencia became for 
her the subject of minute feverish scrutiny. His 
cheerfulness in the carriage, when they were break- 
fasting, and she had cleaned the fish of its spines ; 
the scene in the boat when she had seen him mel- 
ancholy to the verge of tears, as he listened to her ; 
the perturbation which had taken possession of him in 
the train, when she invited him to remove her shoes ; 
finally that kiss of love upon her lips, which im- 
pressed her to the point of losing consciousness, 
all appeared to her, in the light of memory, as so 
many indubitable signs of the sentiment which 
held the breast of her confessor in suspense. The 
poor man was a saint, and his love was doing battle 
with his duty. She believed that this battle ren- 
dered her doubly interesting in his eyes, and 
exalted still further, if* that were possible, her un- 
governable passion. 

Finally, the idea of seeing him once more dawned 
in her brain. The idea was immediately converted 
into a resolve, and inundated her with joy. The 
interview must be secret, no one in Peflascosa must 
know of it. This satisfied her desire not to com- 
promise him, and, at the same time, the condition 


FAITH. 


311 

of her temperment, wliich was always inclined to 
mystery. She determined that it should take place 
by night : she would surprise the vicar in his 
chamber, enjoy a few moments of affectionate ex- 
pansion, and depart on the instant. At last she 
pitched upon the day. During the whole of it she 
was nervous, sweetly agitated, like the schoolgirl 
who beholds her lover scale the gratings of her win- 
dow by night. 

When the hour arrived, she told her father that 
her head ached, by way of excuse for retiring early. 
As soon as she heard him leave the house, she 
threw a mantle over her shoulders with trembling 
hands, and accompanied by her maid, who was her 
perpetual screen, she took her way to the vicar’s 
house. Her limbs failed her for delight, and her 
heart beat violently. 

The curious part of it all is, that it never once oc- 
curred to her that this love was sacrilegious. She 
felt no remorse. Her unbalanced brain turned 
divine and social laws upside down, and founded 
them anew, in accordance with her caprice. To 
her the love of the young priest was pure idealism, 
conformed to the Christian spirit ; she had found 
various similar cases in the lives of the saints. 
When she had dreamed of fleeing with him to some 
sweet and delicious spot, it was always under the 
supposition that she was to continue confessing 
to him, and that they were to ascend to heaven 
together. If the flesh spoke within her, she either 
did not listen to it, or she feigned not to hear it, 
thus deceiving herself. 


312 


FAITH, 


On reaching the priest’s house, she ordered her 
maid to remain at the door ; she would be down again 
directly. She rang, all in a tremble. Da. Josefa 
opened the door. As she had not seen the old woman 
since her famous journey, she flung herself into her 
arms, and embraced and kissed her with affected 
effusion. The housekeeper seemed but ill pleased ; 
she received her with glacial coldness ; ever since she 
had known her, she had fought with herself to restrain 
herself from hurling at her a mass of insults, and 
from slamming the door in her face. The only 
thing which had withheld her was the idea that her 
master had made peace with the pious woman, 
which she deplored, in the depths of her soul, re- 
garding it as very bad and dangerous. 

Obdulia pretended not to notice the good woman’s 
coldness. 

“Is he at home?” she asked, with the same 
smiling mien. 

“Yes. I will go and tell him.” 

“There is no need. He ordered me to come at 
this hour, and he will be expecting me.” 

She immediately set off upstairs, and went to 
Father Gil’s room. Da. Josefa watched her ascend- 
ing with aversion and distrust. To inquire if he 
were at home, and then to say that he was expect- 
ing her, contained a manifest contradiction. For 
this reason, and through native curiosity, she fol- 
lowed her after the lapse of a few moments. With 
her heart dancing with delight, Obdulia approached 
the door of the study and peered through tlie key- 
hole. Father Gil was seated at his writing table. 


FAITH. 


313 


reading by the light of a lamp. A smile of affec- 
tion and enthusiasm contracted the lips of the 
godly young woman. She opened the door abrupt- 
ly, in order to give him an agreeable surprise, and 
exclaimed with joy : 

“ Father, here I am ! ” 

The priest raised his eyes in amazement. Tlie 
woman’s smile suddenly froze on her face. Instead 
of the delight which she had expected, she beheld 
a lighting flash of rage dart through them, which 
was instantly followed by an expression of absolute 
indifference, the same expression of weariness and 
loathing which his face had worn for some time 
past. He rose slowly from his. seat, without reply- 
ing to his penitent’s exclamation, and advanced 
toward her in silence. The pious girl retreated a 
pace, bending upon him a gaze of mingled an- 
j guish and terror. The priest grasped her by 
one arm, and gently, but firmly, led her in si- 
lence to the door, thrust her out of the study, 

' and locked it. 

Obdulia stumbled over a mass of something. It 
was Da. Josefa, who laughed in her face. 

“ It appears that you are not received under a 
canopy like a king, sefiorita ! ” 

She did not answer. Pale, with heart violently 
5 contracted, and in a state of weakness which made 
i her stagger, she descended the staircase without 
[ knowing what she was doing. Da Josefa, breaking 
\ off her flood of laughter, followed her to the street 
j door, screaming after her in wrathful tones, and en- 
I deavoring to lower her voice: 


314 FAITH. 

“ You are in a pretty business, you slothful, dis- 
graceful creature ! You ought to be ashamed of 
yourself! To deceive my poor master, and drag 
him round from pillar to post like a lad of straw 1 
Just look at the little nun ! Is this your religion ? 
Is this your delicacy ? Get away from here ! Go 
to your own house, and have honesty, and have 
shame, and don’t run the streets, you hussy.” 

She sallied forth into the street, crushed, humil- 
iated, broken. She was obliged to cling to the walls 
of the houses to keep from falling. The horrors 
and monstrosities which the vicar’s housekeeper had 
spit upon her rang incessantly in her ears like the 
blows of a hammer. There was a moment when 
she thought that she was about to lose conscious- 
ness, but from the depths of her being welled up a 
raging cry, a cry for vengeance, which bade her hold 
firm. And she obeyed the command, exerting a 
vast effort over herself. She rested for a few mo- 
ments, propped against a wall, passed her hand over 
her brow, then walked rapidly homeward, followed 
by the maid, who had been unable to obtain a reply 
to any of her questions. 

Although she felt very badly she made a point of 
sitting up for her father. Whe4i he arrived, at 
eleven o’clock, she followed him to his chamber 
and after shutting the door, she suddenly said to 
him : 

“ Papa, I did not tell you the truth when you 
found. me with the vicar.” 

The hunchback gave vent to a howl of rage. 

“ Ah, how sure I was of it ! ” And he began to 
pace up and down the room like a tiger, pouring 


FAITH. 


315 

forth insults and blasphemies. After a while he 
halted in front of his daughter. “ In any case, you 
have lost your honorable reputation in the town. It 
is necessary that this infamous fellow should not be 
allowed to laugh at you. Are we agreed ? ” 

“ I am agreed,” she replied firmly, “ and I have 
confessed to you with that object.” 

Osuna fixed upon her a glance of surprise and 
curiosity. 

“ Come,” he said after a pause, with a sarcastic 
smile, “ there has been a breach.” 

“ It matters little whether there has been one or 
not,” she replied, with a peevish accent. “ What 
interests me at this moment is, that I should not be 
made to pay alone for the fault of both — for his 
fault principally.” 

The hunchback assented with all his soul, for he 
was still more engrossed with his vengeance upon the 
vicar than with his daughter’s disgrace. And they 
began to whisper at great* length upon the means to 
be employed to bring this about. Four o’clock in 
the morning had struck when Obdulia emerged 
from her father’s room. 

She went to bed in a fever. She could not get to 
sleep. The scene in which she had just played so 
sorry a part presented itself to her imagination with 
ever increasing relief. Despite all the efforts which 
she made, it was impossible to blot it from her 
mind even for a moment. Her self-love groaned as 
though her flesh were being torn off with pincers. 

As soon as she rose, she summoned her father and, 
as they had agreed upon, both of them went to see 
Father Narciso. This was her idea. .She under- 


3i6 


FAITH. 


Stood that the person of all others in Pefiascosa who 
could aid them the most in their enterprise against 
the vicar was the coadjutor, and to him they betook 
themselves. He seemed surprised at her resolution 
and even hypocritically tried to dissuade them ; but 
he overflowed so with joy at every pore, that one 
rather sharp word from Obdulia sufficed to render 
him as pliable as a glove. 

Osuna suggested the idea of applying to the 
bishop. D. Narciso opposed this with decision. It 
was a common offense and the ordinary courts should 
take cognizance of it. When they had finished their 
part, it would be quite time enough to petition the 
Church to chastise the culprit. The crafty priest 
knew very well that the ecclesiastical courts con- 
trive to cover up the crimes of its priests in order to 
avert scandals, the consequences of which are worse. 
The Church feigns not to believe them in order not 
to perceive the necessity for imposing a penalty 
which shall excite too much remark. Accordingly 
they determined to lodge a complaint with the ex- 
amining magistrate. On the following day Obdulia 
went to Lancia to consult one of the most prom- 
inent lawyers on the case. She entrusted him with 
the direction of the affair, left him her appointed 
attorney, and went through with him, under the 
seal of the greatest secrecy, all the steps conducive 
to her undertaking, not forgetting to procure sev- 
eral letters from the most influential persons in the 
province for the judge of Pefiascosa. 

While these threatening clouds were accumulat- 
ing around his head, the innocent vicar walked from 
his house to the church, from the church to his 


FAITH. 


317 


house, his brow pallid, his face melancholy and re- 
signed. His eyes, ordinarily fixed on the earth, oc- 
casionally directed timid glances at the populace as 
though he feared that through them the secret 
which was devouring his heart would be discovered. 
He no longer read any books but those of enter- 
tainment ; he did not meditate. Weary of stum- 
bling always over the same impassable wall, he 
shunned in terror launching his thoughts through 
the spheres of metaphysics. 

Nevertheless, there came a moment when he did 
so without being aware of it. It was on a placid 
May night. A little more than a month had 
elapsed since the famous journey to Palencia. He 
had read a portion of a certain Greek history, from 
the library of Montesinos, which had been dis- 
persed at the latter’s death. He felt warm and 
tired. He extinguished his lamp, opened the doors 
of the gallery, carried out his armchair, and seated 
himself there to enjoy the sea breeze. For a few 
moments he fixed his gaze attentively on the celes- 
tial vault studded with stars, and tried to recog- 
nize some of the constellations. Then he contem- 
plated the Milky Way, which was admirably out- 
lined on that particular evening, with the amaze- 
ment which that always produces. That white 
fillet, where the stars seem like the finest dust, al- 
ways caused him a profound stupor, amazement. 
Every grain of that dust is a body thousands of 
times larger than the earth, which makes other 
planets circle round it though we are unable to 
perceive them. 

And still,” he said to himself, after a moment. 


3i8 


FAITH. 


emerging from his stupor with a sigh, “ all these 
grandeurs no longer terrify me, because they have 
no reality. The existence of these stars is the 
pendant to the thread of my reason. I bear within 
me the eternal form of these objects, as of all the 
rest. They are nothing in my eyes but a mirror in 
which my inner being is reflected. Through the 
medium of the mechanism of my brain, of my fac- 
ulty for knowing, the fantastic comedy which is 
called the external world is played. This infinite 
time, athwart which matter exists, clothing itself in 
ever varying forms ; this infinite space also, which 
you fill, ye luminous spheres, exists only in my im- 
agination ; they are forms which I carry ready pre- 
pared in my brain, in order that you may be, or, 
what is the same thing, that you may be repre- 
sented in me. 

“But what is there behind this phenomenon, the 
only thing which I can perceive ? What is the 
true and innermost being of the universe ? Are 
these infinite worlds, perchance, outside of my 
imagination? Yes. Absolute idealism is an ab- 
surdity, for I am the object of representation to 
the rest of mankind, and yet, I hold the absolute 
certainty that I exist apart from this representa- 
tion. The same thing happens to other men. 
What am I, separated from that corporeal form in 
which I see myself, outside that time and space 
which I carry in my own brain ? What is my own 
essence, and the essence of the universe ? 

“ I do not know. I shall never know. The efforts 
of philosophy have been dashed to atoms against 


FAITH. 


3^9 


that impenetrable mystery. Up to this time, no 
one has deciphered the great enigma of existence. 
A few privileged beings have tried to pass behind 
the veil, and have offered to us, each one according 
to his fancy, systems pleasant or lugubrious, austere 
or frivolous, as that which constitutes the founda- 
tion of life. But these systems possess no scientific 
value ; they are nothing more than hypotheses. 
The step from representation to being is a mortal 
bound, in which have perished the most sagacious 
philosophers, the most sublime geniuses of hu- 
manity. Kant, the giant, who has couched the 
cataracts of my intelligence, attributes to the im- 
perative of the moral conscience an absolute value 
outside of time and space. Setting out from this, 
he believes that he penetrates with assured tread 
into the mysteries of infinite essence. Illusions! 
This imperative is a phantasm. The materialistic 
philosophers have attacked it with their scalpel of 
criticism, and it has been shown to be hollow. 
Schopenhauer, that subtle thinker who is carrying 
away the youth of to-day, places the Will — which, in 
his opinion, is the thing in itself — outside the world of 
phenomena. Why? For the same reason that he 
calls it Will, the scholastics have called it ens real- 
issimum, and their predecessors in Germany called 
' it the absolute. Try as he will to conceal it, his 
i theory is founded, like the rest, on pure hypothe- 
! sis, and hypotheses have no value in science ; they 
i are sustained only by faith.” 

I As he formulated this last word in his brain, his 
I heart leaped in his breast, he knew not why. He 


320 


FAITH. 


was vaguely conscious that he had come in contact 
with something to which he could cling, and again 
he was plunged into profound meditation. | 

“ There is no doubt about it. That which science j 
can give us is the relations of things under the sov- * 
ereignty of time and space. It will never tell me ^ 
their essence. In order to know anything of it, my ;| 
faculty of knowing must be transformed. And why ; 
should I not allow it to be transformed ? Why , 
should not I cut loose for a moment from my reason li 
and lend assent to the presentiments of my soul, to i 
the inward voice, which explains to me in a clear man- 
ner the divine essence of the Universe? Reason 
does not tell me why the setting of the sun in the 
sea is beautiful. Yet it is beautiful! Reason does 
not tell me that San Juan de Dios is sublime when 
he embraces lepers. Yet he is* sublime ! Ah, 
yes! Above this vulgar knowledge, which renders 
me a slave to matter, there is another which emanci- 
pates me. The eyes of the body do not penetrate 
into the profound inwardness of being; but faith 
needs no eyes ; they depict if blindfolded. I possess 
not only a reason, which explains to me the appear- 
ance of things ; there exists also in my spirit a con- 
stant revelation, which illuminates them from within. 
Why need I part company with this revelation ? 
Why need I shut rhy eyes to the sighs of my soul? 
This revelation is the most precious treasure with 
which I have been endowed. I wish to enjoy it ; 

I wish to recover my liberty, and respond to the 
divine summons within me. This revelation tells me 
that I am a stranger in the world, subjected to neces- 


FAITH. 


321 


sity, and that I can break the bonds which unite me 
to it. It bids me shake off the yoke of time, and 
distinguish between what there is within me that is 
temporal, and what is eternal. If I call up in my 
brain the eternal forms of objects, it means that I am 
superior, and possess an existence independent of 
them. This existence is the only one in me that is 
real ; the rest is pure appearance, and as it has been 
born, so it must die. I wish to live-that free, im- 
mortal life ; I wish to know directly that eternal 
truth which is concealed behind this universe. ‘ The 
hour will come,’ said Jesus, ‘ in which the dead shall 
hear the voice of the Son of God, and they that hear 
it shall live.’ The hour is come for me. Oh, yes ! 
eternal God, past time and space, and all ephemeral 
forms of existence, I behold Thee, immutable, infin- 
ite, sole fountain of truth and of life, sole light 
in the darkness which envelops our temporal 
life ; I see Thee, I acknowledge Thee, I adore 
Thee ! ” 

A shock similar to that produced by an elec- 
tric current caused him to rise suddenly to his 
feet. His heart beat with such force that he raised 
his hands to his breast. A great, intense motion 
rose from it to his throat, and compressed it. He 
felt himself flooded with a strange joy. He began 
to pace the gallery, seized with restlessness which 
pained him. It seemed to him as though his being 
had suddenly migrated into that of an angel, that 
in his spirit an august, ineffable mystery were in pro- 
gress. He was seized with an impulse to laugh and 
cry at the same moment. He found himself in the 


322 


FAITH. 


position of an exile who has suddenly been restored 
to his native land and the bosom of his family. 

He was obliged to exert an effort over himself to 
keep from skipping, laughing, and shouting, like a 
person who has inhaled oxygen. 

He was so abstracted in these thoughts, that he 
did not hear the noise of his study door opening, 
nor the footsteps of a person who advanced until he 
reached the corridor. 

“ Good-evening, Seflor Vicar,” said a familiar 
voice. 

“Who is there? Ah! Is it you, Seftor Judge? 
How is it that they have not struck a light ?” 

“It is unnecessary. The night is fine. This 
gallery is a grand institution, without a doubt.” 

They shook hands, and the examining judge, who 
was a man about forty years of age, with an open 
and sympathetic face, approached the railing of the 
gallery, and laid his hands on it. 

“You must be surprised,” he said, with affected 
indifference, “to see me here at this hour.* Hist! 
A complaint has been lodged in the court. Nothing. 
It is of no importance, I suppose. But you know that 
all these legal "matters are attended with so much 
formality. Then, in the hearing, not a rat is allowed 
to pass ; everything must be in due order. In short, 
I find myself under the necessity of arresting you. 
I suppose that it will be for a very short time, a 
pure formality ; but I must do it. I did not like to 
send the constable to you now, lest you should be 
alarmed, for the matter is not worth the trouble. I 
came in person to set you at your ease. Do not be 


FAITH. 


323 


afraid, for the arrest is of no importance, and come 
with me. In that way, no one will know anything 
about it.” 

“ A complaint ? Of what am I accused ? ” 

“ Apparently, it is connected with that escapade of 
Osuna’s girl. Do not be alarmed.” 

“ I am not alarmed, judge. I am ready to follow 
you instantly. If you will permit, I will light the 
lamp to remove my slippers and put on my shoes.” 

“Whatever you wish, vicar,” the judge made 
haste to say, “you may take the time to dispatch 
to the prison whatever effects you consider re- 
quisite.” 

The priest struck a match, and prepared to light 
the lamp. The judge was astounded. Instead of 
the pallid and discomposed countenance which he 
had thought to find, he could observe the happiest 
and most placid face that he had ever beheld in 
his life. In the glance which the vicar cast upon 
him, after he had lighted the lamp, shone a joy 
as pure as though he had come to notify him that 
he had been made a bishop. The judge retreated 
a pace, and fixed his eyes on him with suspicion. 
But he was reassured, on seeing the perfect calmness 
with which he made his preparations. Repacked 
some clothing in a valise, put on his shoes, his 
cassock and his hat, and said, with a smile : 

“ I am ready. We priests do not take much time 
to settle matters, do we ? I shall say nothing to Da. 
Josefa, in order to avoid a sad scene; do you not think 
that will be better? I will write to her from prison, 
and ask her for clothing.” 


324 


FAI7'H. 


The judge approved of all that he said, and they 
descended the stairs and sallied forth into the 
street like two friends. During their walk the 
young priest gave signs of a loquacity and cheerful- 
ness which had not been observable in him for a long 
time past. They entered the jail, the judge selected 
the best room, and after installing him in it he took 
leave with growing surprise, when he saw that the 
priest remained as serene and smiling there as in his 
own house. 

He left the prison quickly, deeply impressed. As 
he walked up the street of the Quadrant, his 
imagination fumbled about in search of an explana- 
tion for this extraordinary conduct. 

The examining judge was far from suspecting that 
on entering the prison, the vicar of Pefiascosa 
had just escaped from the dungeons of skepti- 


cism. 


XIV. 


Keep order, gentlemen ! ” 

The voice of the crier rang out imperative, 
strident,’ but did not succeed in calming the laughter 
and the murmurs of the spectators. For, although 
the president of the court had resolved that the 
trial should take place behind closed doors, in view 
of the delicate character of the crime, and the per- 
sons who had interposed in it, there were so many* 
lawyers who claimed their right to be present, and 
so many permits had been issued, that a numerous 
assembly was speedily formed, and one which was 
more uneasy than might have been expected. 

The criminal court room of the audience hall at 
Lancia was a large, dark, rectangular dusty room. 
At the further end, under a canopy of faded damask, 
the three magistrates who composed the bench were 
seated in velvet armchairs. On one side was the 
private prosecutor, with a table before him. Front- 
ing him was the defender. The court reporter stood 
facing the judges. Behind was the defendant, on 
his little bench. 

The witness who occupied the stand at that 
moment was the coachman who had driven Father 
Gil and his penitent from Pefiascosa to the station of 
La Reguera. He was called by the plaintiff. He 
was an elderly man, with an extremely red face, illu- 

32s 


326 


FAITH. 


minated by alcohol as much as by inclement 
weather. He wore a jacket as thick as a pack- 
saddle, and twisted his cloth cap in his fingers with 
embarrassment, as he gave his testimony. His voice 
was hoarse, as is befitting every driver who thinks 
anything of himself ; his style was picturesque 
and he occasionally abused tropes somewhat. 

“ Then the master, he says to me ; ‘ Lico, you’re to 
go to Pefiascosa, for some gentle folks. You go no 
further than the tavern of Marica, and there you 
sleep. Take straw for the cattle, for there aint 
none there.’ In this the master spoke well, for there 
is straw in Marica’s house, only she will not give 
it to anyone who happens along, of course. ‘Take 
Firebrand and Simple ; they’re the beasts to drag 
the carriage.’ ‘ That’s according and in proportion,’ 
said I. ‘ Firebrand’s a dog. When I give him the 
signal not to go, you can just light your candle, he 
won’t budge ! ’ ” 

“ Have done with your firebrands and candles, and 
tell us what you know about the matter,” interrupted 
the president, in an irritated voice. 

This president was an obstinate, choleric imperti- 
nent old man, who conducted the sessions of the 
court like a school for small boys. He gave offense 
to criminals and witnesses, and did not respect the 
lawyers much more. He showed his sympathies and 
his antipathies with a frankness that was astounding. 
Notwithstanding, he was not a wicked man, and he 
did not act in bad faith. Everything depended on 
his excessively nervous temperament, and on his age, 
which had impaired his intellect. 


FAITH. 


327 


“ Very good, sir, I’ll drive at the point. At one 
o’clock, a minute more or less, this Seftor Cura ar- 
rives,” pointing to the accused, “ and gets into the 
coach. We got to Marica’s house; it might have 
been about six o’clock. There the gentleman left us 
and told us .that he would come back on the next 
day, very early, with another person, and that we were 
to go back to Lancia. In the night a small boy 
came and fetched me two valises and on the next 
morning, very early, the sefior came with a female 
who was all wrapped up. Then I harnessed up, and 
then I went into the tavern to clean my gullet. No 
one'was there but Marica. ‘Do you know, Marica,’ 
said I, ‘ that I don’t like to take that little priest and 
the female in the carriage ? ’ ‘ Why not ? ’ ‘ Because 
that man wasn’t made for such offices as these, all the 
same, you understand,’ ‘ Ave Maria, what an ass 
you are, Lico ! Stop that ! Aren’t you ashamed ? ’ 
‘ My Marica, you haven’t been about the world as I 
have. I’ve been in Leon, in Palencia, in Salamanca’ 
and even in the land of Extramadura.’ 

These were the words which had created the up- 
roar already mentioned. Neither the criers with 
their shouts, nor the president with his bell could 
apease it for some time. Finally, the latter man- 
aged to make himself heard. He threatened to clear 
the room instantly, and this sufficed to re-establish 
silence. Then he turned to the witness once more. 

“ I warn the witness that if he has been through 
all the places he says, he is not on a good road now. 
Abstain from coarse phrases and speak the truth 
simply.” 


328 


FAITH. 


After the coachman, the shepherd lad deposed. 
His testimony was of no importance. Therl several 
pious women-of Pefiascosa were called, and declared 
in vague terms that they had observed a certain un- 
usual friendship between Obduliaand her confessor, 
although they had never thought any evil of her. 
Father Narciso also gave his testimony. His testi- 
mony was a model of hypocrisy and malice. While 
uttering hyperbolical eulogies upon the virtue and 
talent of his colleague, he contrived, none the less, to 
drive the dagger in up to the hilt. His insidious 
reticences, the sad and patronizing tone in which 
he excused the faults of the priest, and his last 
words, calculated to excite the leniency of the bench, 
caused a profound impression in the audience. He 
appeared to be justifying his colleague ; but in his 
actions and gestures it was plainly to be read that 
he condemned him. 

All eyes were turned to the accused. Father Gil 
remained what he had been three months previously, 
on his entrance into the prison of Pefiascosa. His 
face had grown still whiter with imprisonment. In- 
stead of the weariness and melancholy which it had 
reflected of late, there was now to be seen a cheerful 
serenity, a firmness which had disconcerted all pres- 
ent at the oral examination. It seemed as though 
these debates had nothing to do with him, that it 
was not his honor and liberty which were under dis- 
cussion. The opinion which prevailed in the as- 
sembly, and which the liberal press of Lancia had al- 
ready echoed, was, that this priest was a cynic, with 
little or no shame; It was not necessary to be very 


FAITH. 


329 


keensighted to perceive that he had won the antip- 
athy of the bench, above all of the president, who 
had already made it plain on several occasions. The 
accused glanced at Father Narciso, from time to 
time, with a firm and tranquil gaze, as he had 
at every witness wha had testified. The coad- 
jutor spoke with his eyes fixed on the floor, and 
everyone applauded his modesty and the moderation 
of his words. 

D. Martin de las Casas was the next to emerge from 
the witnesses’ room. After his name, age, rank, pro- 
fession, and so forth, the president asked him: 

Have you ever been on trial ? ” 

D. Martin, who was considerably perturbed, for 
he was above all, a man of action, as we know, and 
not of law, replied hesitatingly : 

‘‘ I do not remember.” 

“ You don’t remember, man ! That sort of thing 
is not generally forgotten.” 

The president’s phrase aroused great merriment 
in the audience. The witness gnashed his teeth. 
He would have given his other shoulder to be able 
to deal that old man a cuff. The latter, observing 
his irritation, interrupted him several times during 
his deposition, addressing to him several facetious 
questions which delighted the audience. The fero-‘ 
cious chieftain of Peflascosa hoarded up in the space 
of a few minutes so much wrath, that he contem- 
plated nothing less than spitting in the face of the 
president and bidding him defiance, as soon as they 
should get out into the street. Nevertheless, this 
forcible man, worthy to have lived in the age of iron, 


330 


FAITH, 


stumbled across him in the club that evening and, 
instead of insulting him, he took off his hat to 
him with much reverence. 

D. Peregrin Casanova was summoned imme- 
diately after, and, quite the reverse of what had 
happened with his friend, he entered the hall 
majestically, snorting and pitching like a steamer 
which is making up alongside the pier. In sub- 
stance, the ex-temporary Governor of Tarragona 
came to state that the vicar of Pellascosa had never 
been the saint of his adoration. Reserved, gentle, 
silent characters had not turned out well in his 
experience. They might, with other people, he did 
not dispute that, but he, in his long administrative 
career, had had numerous subordinates who had 
been on the point of compromising him, and these 
men had always possessed characters similar to that 
of the accused. When the report had run through 
Penascosa that Obdulia had fled with the vicar, he 
had said : “ Impossible ! I am sure that this man 
has carried her off by means of deceit. I have been 
watching him for a long time, and I do not need so 
much proof. I pride myself on having a good nose.” 
[On what did D. Peregrin nob pride himself ?] In 
spite of the fact that certain differences existed 
between him and Osuna, he forgot them imme- 
diately, for he had never been rancorous, and had 
offered to accompany him in pursuit of the pair. 
He had blushed with indignation. Then he tried 
to enter into philosophical considerations as to the 
magnitude of the crime, and the advantage which 
must accrue to society from the punishment admin- 


FAITH. 331 

istered with a firm hand by the courts, in such cases; 
but the president stopped him. The pedantic, the 
nasal and vehement tone, and the action like that of 
a dominie who is delivering his declamation, had 
made a bad impression on the spectators, but worst 
of all on the president, who stared at him with grim 
eyes from the moment he began. When his patience 
was at an end, and it took a long time to exhaust it, 
he said, in the harsh voice of a little old man: 

“ Perhaps you would like to give us a course of 
lectures on penal law? Drop your philosophizing 
and state the facts as God has let you understand 
them, which is very badly of a surety.’' 

“ Mr. President, I think that I am perfectly within 
my right.” 

“You have no right here, either perfect or imper- 
fect.” 

“ Mr. President, I ” 

“ Enough. Retire.” 

“ Mr. President ! ” 

“ Retire immediately, or you will be expelled by 
the constables.” 

Red with confusion, tremulous and abashed, on 
the point of weeping, the man who had ruled the 
destinies of Tarragona for more than two weeks 
finally left the room, stumbling as he went. 

“ Mr. President,” exclaimed the prosecuting 
attorney, haughtily, “this order weakens the proof 
which I propose to adduce and seems to me arbi- 
trary.” 

“ I call the counsel to order! ” shouted the presi- 
dent furiously, ringing his bell. 


33 ^ 


FAITIf 


“ Mr. President, I understand that the rights of 
the prosecution are in jeopardy ” 

“ I call the counselor to order for the second 
time ! ” shouted the president still more furiously, 
half rising from his seat, and hammering the table 
with his bell. 

“ Then I enter the corresponding protest.” 

“ Protest as much as you like, but abstain in the 
future from uttering disrespectful words to the 
president.” 

The prosecuting attorney was a flabby young 
fellow, with a black beard, small, insolent eyes, sel- 
fish in all his ways. He figured as chief of the fed- 
eral republicans in Lancia, and managed the periodi- 
cal which they published. His hatred for the clergy 
was proverbial in the town. He had endured 
various skirmishes on this account ; one of them 
with the bishop ; he had been prosecuted for insult- 
ing religion. As was but natural, he seized by the 
hair every opportunity to vex its ministers. A trial 
like the present, in which a priest figured as the cul- 
prit, filled him with jubilation, and he attended to it 
with care as tender as though a sister’s honor had 
been in question. After D. Peregrin, the landlady 
of the inn in Palencia was called. She was presented 
by the defense. She declared that she had observed 
singular relations between the priest and the young 
woman, but that'they had in no way compromised 
the former. When they arrived they asked for 
horses to journey, on the following day, to Astu- 
dillo. The servant told her that they had not yet 
set out, because the lady had caught a slight cold 


FAITH. 


333 


and was not risen. She went to see her, and found 
her pale, but not suffering from a cold. She asked 
her if her traveling companion, the priest, had been 
to see her, and she hastened to reply that he had 
not, in so lively a manner that it attracted her atten- 
tion. Afterward she learned that she had sent 
a message to the priest, telling him to breakfast 
alone, and then come to her chamber. He remained 
there only a short time. 

Da. Josefa, the vicar’s housekeeper, also called by 
the defense, came out immediately after her. 

It was said that this woman had proofs of her 
master’s innocence, that she would relate very curi- 
ous things. Her deposition was awaited with anx- 
iety. When she had been sworn, and after the 
regulation questions, the president said to her, in 
the acrid tone which characterized him : 

“ Now, you are to tell what you know, but be- 
ware of impostures, for I have my eye on you.” 
The counsul for the defense, who was a corpulent 
man, with large white whiskers, protested against 
this warning. Interrogated by the president. Da. 
Josefa stated that Obdulia had persecuted her mas- 
ter, and had worried him by proposing the flight to 
the convent. 

That the vicar had tried, in vain, to dissuade her; 
his efforts had been futile. She was so resolved to 
go that she would have gone alone, had he refused 
to accompany her. In view of this, her master, al- 
though with great ill will, had yielded. The wit- 
ness herself had advised him to it, in order that he 
might rid himself of so insufferable a pious person. 


334 


FAITH. 


“ And is it not true,” asked the counsel for the 
defense, “ that a month, more or less, after their re- 
turn from Palencia, the plaintiff presented herself 
one night, in the house of my client, and was 
turned out of doors by him ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Explain to us how it was.” 

Da. Josefa related with exactness the scene with 
which the reader is already acquainted, without 
omitti-ng the insults which she had hurled at the 
young woman. 

“As this version,” said the counsel for the de- 
fense, “ does not tally with that presented by the 
plaintiff’s statement that she did not speak with 
my client after her return from Palencia, I request 
that the witnesses be confronted.” 

“Mr. President,” remarked Obdulia’s counsel, 

“ the plaintiff agrees to this petition of the de- 
fense, but requests that the confrontation may 
take place after the plaintiff has testified.” 

The president ruled thus. The counsel for plain- 
tiff asked Da. Josefa: 

“ Is it true that the witness looked with evil eyes 
on my client, because she supposed that the latter 
was depriving her of a portion of the affection or 
esteem of her master ? ” 

“ Do not answer that question ! ” the president 
said hastily. 

“ Very good,” said the counsel for plaintiff. . 
“ Is it not equally true that the witness detested 
all the spiritual daughters of the accused, and set 
up a sort of rivalry with them ? ” 


FAITH. 335 

“ Do not answer that question either. It is as 
impertinent as the other.” 

“ I renounce further cross-questioning,” said the 
lawyer, with a malicious smile, which indicated 
clearly that he believed he Jiad already attained his 
object. 

The great sensation of this trial was still to come, 
that which, since its beginning, several days previ- 
ous, had been looked forward to by everyone, in 
short — the testimony of the plaintiff, which stood 
last on the list. When the president gave the order 
to send her in, a prolonged murmur ran through 
the assembly, which was followed by a sepulchral 
silence. All. eyes were turned to the door, with an 
expression of intense curiosity. 

At length, Osuna’s daughter made her appear- 
ance. She was dressed wkh both modesty and 
elegance. Her slender, distinguished figure, and 
the worn but interesting beauty of her face, caused 
a favorable impression under the circumstances. 
As she passed on to her place, she did not deign to 
cast a glance at her former confessor. She was 
paler than usual, and the circles round her eyes 
were more strongly defined ; but an unwonted 
brilliancy and vehemence could be detected in her 
gaze. 

The president put to her the legal queries, in a 
respectful and even gallant tone. She replied with 
notable clearness and precision. 

“ Is it true,” the president asked, “ that you have 
been the subject of a malicious and scandalous as- 
sault on the part of the defendant ? ” 


33 ^ 


FAITH. 


“Yes, sir.” 

“ Relate the occurrences in the form which you 
think most fitting, without departing from the 
truth.” 

“Avery short time a?fter the arrival of Father 
Gil in Peflascosa, to fill the office of vicar, I began 
to confess to him. I found him prudent, intelli- 
gent, and extraordinarily pious. The respect which 
I felt for his talents, and his virtues, was so great 
that malicious persons in town might easily have 
imagined that there existed in me an inclination 
for his person. I cannot deny that I entertained 
esteem and affection for him. During the time 
that he was my confessor, I never observed in him 
more than a spiritual esteem at times, not always, 
for he ordinarily showed himself severe and not 
communicative. Only 'toward the last did I begin 
to notice that he lingered longer than before over 
the confessions [laughter and murmurs in the audi- 
ence] ; that he tried to prolong them by entering in- 
to conversation which had nothing to do with them. 
I paid no attention to this, nor to the fact that 
once, when we parted, he held my hand in his for a 
long time. [More laughter. The president shakes 
his bell.] I attributed it to the confidence with 
which I had succeeded in inspiring him, for he had, 
in appearance at least, a very timid and retiring 
character. A year ago, at least, I expressed to him 
a desire to enter a convent, but he tenaciously op- 
posed it. From time to time I returned to the 
charge, entreating him to help me to carry it out. 

I always encountered the same resistance until, 


FAITH. 


337 


suddenly, a few months ago, he told me one day 
that he found my project very good and holy, and 
that he was disposed to lend me the means to 
realize it. The first thing which occurred to me, 
naturally, was to ask my father’s permission. 
Father Gil opposed this. He said to me that it 
was not proper at that time; we would see about 
it later on. We began to discuss the question 
of the convent. I desired to enter that of 
the Augustines, in Lancia, but he told me 
that he knew of a convent of Carmelites in Astu- 
dillo which was just suited to me. It was a convent 
which had not more than ten or twelve nuns, was 
very tranquil, very remote, a real little nook of 
heaven, as he expressed it. [Laughter.] We made 
preparations for the expedition. He offered to ac- 
company me. I did not cease to insist that my 
father should be informed of the plan. He did not 
oppose this openly, but he constantly deferred it. 
Finally, when the moment of putting it into execu- 
tion arrived, he told me that he thought it more 
prudent not to impart it to him. The poor man 
was .about to suffer a very great grief. Perhaps, 
perceiving the possibility of putting a stop to it, he 
would oppose it, while, if he learned it after it had 
been carried out, he would have no remedy but to 
resign himself to it. In short, he alleged a number 

of reasons which ended by convincing me ” 

Here the plaintiff paused ; she raised her hand to 
her brow, as though it pained her to recall what she 
was about to say — a gesture worthy of an actress 
of the highest rank. 


338 


FAITH. 


“ We set out one morning in March, at daybreak. 
He had prepared everything perfectly. The day be- 
fore he had gone to Lancia, and brought back a 
carriage, which he had left in the neighborhood of 
Pefiascosa. During the drive we spoke but little to- 
gether. I was sad and uneasy. We did not enter 
Lancia, but went on to La Reguera to take the train 
there. We waited for a considerable time, and 
strolled along the bank of the river. Nothing told 
me then that I ought to conceive suspicions. Only 
when we were in the train, and were left alone, I 
noticed that he stared at me intently. I went off 
to the opposite corner. I tried to rest, and wished 
to take of my boots because they hurt me. Then he 
jumped up to take them off for me, and without 
waiting for a reply, he began to do it. 

“ This caused me shame, to tell the truth, and I was 
greatly disturbed. I was much vexed that I had 
gone away with him. Nevertheless, I managed to 
dissimulate. We reached Palencia, and sent in 
search of horses to take us to Astudillo on the fol- 
lowing day. But on the next day, I felt very ill. 
The emotion of the journey had upset my nerves. 
Something worse was in store for me, unfortunately. 
The father came in to see me ; he sat down and, 
after some commonplaces, he began to talk to me of 
love, like any gallant. He made me a declaration. 
He told me that he had only invented that jour- 
ney. 

“ I found the strength to reply to him. I did it 
with such energy, that I confounded him. 

“ Then the landlady came to see me, and I was on 


FAITH. 


339 


the point of telling her of what had happened, but I 
restrained myself. It pained me to the very soul to 
create a scandal and ruin a priest. I sent a message 
to the father that he should breakfast alone, and 
afterward come to see me. My object was to make 
him reflect a little, and beg him to write to papa, or 
telegraph him to come for me, under the pretext 
that I was ill, and could not enter the convent. He 
came after he had breakfasted ; but, instead of pre- 
senting himself in a state of repentance for what he 
had done, he began to make love to me again. 

“ Then I talked to him as was my duty, reminding 
him of his duties, and of the confidence which I had 
reposed in him. He paid no heed.” 

A violent erhotion ran through the audience. A 
prolonged murmur arose. All eyes, which up to 
that time had been fixed on the plaintiff, were 
directed to the defendant. Father Gil had listened 
to this infamou§ declaration at first with surprise, 
then with sad compassion, which the people around 
him, impressed by the young woman’s words, were 
not able to read in his eyes. This tranquil attitude, 
this persistent gaze, fixed on his accuser, continued 
to be attributed to cynicism. 

It was almost impossible that it should be other- 
wise. Obdulia, beneath the lash of wrath, had dis- 
played a diabolical intent. Her speech and man- 
ners, though somewhat exaggerated, vibrated with 
indignation. Her eyes never met those of the 
priest ; but she understood well how to impart to 
her fear the aspect of scorn. 

“ I desire to have the plaintiff state,” said the 


340 


FAITH. 


counsel for the defense, “ how it happened that, 
after aU which she has just described had oc- 
curred, she afterward confessed herself to be the 
sole author of the flight and said nothing until a long 
time had elapsed ? ” 

“ I said nothing through shame. I think that any 
woman would do the same in my case. What had I 
to gain by revealing such things ? It was only when 
I beheld my honor being dragged through the mire, 
it was only when what was being said in Pefiascosa 
came to my ears, that I ventured to confess to my 
father. I am here to-day by his command, and on 
no other terms would I have come.” 

She replied with admirable serenity and vivacity 
to all questions from the president and the » other 
judges. Not for an instant did her imagination 
falter. 

Father Gil’s lawyer finally proposed to confront 
her with Da. Josefa. The latter entered again, and 
riveted a wrathful gaze upon Obdulia, who retorted 
with one of affected disdain. At the instance of 
the president, she repeated her story of the scene in 
which FatherGil had turned his penitent out of the 
house. After a few words, the latter showed signs 
of agitation and turned horribly pale. 

“False, false!” she cried, unable to contain 
herself. 

“ Is it false that you entered my master’s study, 
with the exclamation: ‘Father, here am I!’ and 
that my master, without uttering a word in reply, 
rose from his chair, seized you by the arm and led 
you out of the room ?” 


FAITH. 


341 


“’Tisalie! This woman is mad. She invents a 
calumny to serve her master.” 

I am not mad, no, nor do I calumniate anyone. 
The person who is calumniating a priest is you, you 
hussy, and you will have to render an account to 
God for your wickedness.” 

“ Remove the witness,” said the president. “ Re- 
move the plaintiff also, or I shall be obliged to ex- 
pel them from the court.” 

But neither of them paid any heed to this threat. 
Obdulia continued to scream: 

“ ’Tis false ! You lie ! ” 

“ ’Tis you who lie, and to satisfy your pride, you 
are trying to ruin a priest, a saint ! ” 

“ Silence ! ” shouted the president, pounding with 
his bell. 

“ May God grant you good health ! ” ex- 
claimed the young woman with a sarcastic smile. 
“ Don’t calumniate others for the sake of saving 
him.” 

“ Enough ! Expel these women from the place,” 
ejaculated the president, addressing the criers. 

“You are the calumniator! You impostor! 
Scoundrel ! You accuse him because he scorned 
you. Aren’t you afraid that the earth will open and 
swallow you up ? ” 

At that moment a crier seized her arm and pushed 
her brutally toward the door. But Da. Josefa con- 
tinued to shriek until she reached it: 

“ There is no justice if this woman is not beaten ; 
if she is not tarred and feathered ! Rascal that you 
are ! ” 


342 


FAITH. 


Another crier went to expel the other ; but at 
the moment when he approached, Obdulia fell to 
the floor in a swoon. Her lawyer and the people 
near her hastened to her assistance. She was 
carried to the secretary’s room. Two physicians 
in the assembly attended to her of their own ac- 
cord. 

The examination was ended, and after a few mo- 
ments, the president gave the floor to the prose- 
cutor. 

His discourse was, as had been expected, elo- 
quent and furious. His voice was thick, in conse- 
quence of a chronic bronchitis; when he tried to 
raise it it became shrill and strident. His language 
was fluent, though it abounded in the common- 
places of journalism. But no one in Lancia could 
speak with such terseness. He depicted Father Gil 
as a hypocritical, cringing being, who satisfied his 
shameful passions in secret and concealed them care- 
fully for fear of losing his position. These passions 
are frequent among ecclesiastics, in whom they are 
excited by a regimen of idleness and a luxurious and 
sedentary life. 

As he insisted too much on this point, the presi- 
dent called him to order. 

He described the crime with picturesque crude- 
ness, with the express view of impressing the bench. 
An odious plan sketched out beforehand, and carried 
out with implacable firmness and skill. An abuse of 
confidence in the first place, an attack on modesty 
in the second ; finally a cowardly and sacrilegious 
violation. The proofs were conclusive. With both 


FAITH. 


343 


vigor and subtlety he heaped them upon the head 
of the priest and wound up with this flourish : “ And 
as if all these irrefutable facts were not sufficient to 
demonstrate clearly the premeditation of the crime, 
I will adduce another. It has been said, and all 
have concurred upon this point, that Father Gil was 
taking his spiritual daughter to a convent of Car- 
melites in Astudillo. Well, then, most excellent 
sir, there is no convent of Carmelites in Astudillo. 
Does the court desire more? ” 

The speech was brief and overhelming. At its 
close a murmur of approbation, which augured ill for 
the defendant, became audible. 

The latter’s counsel was a lawyer of intelligence 
and experience, but he was absolutely lacking in 
the oratorical gifts of his opponent. He had an 
abundant flow of language, but it was heavy, monot- 
onous, more fitted to elucidate some obscure point 
in a civil trial than to carry away the minds of the 
court and the public. He undertook, with exces- 
sive probity, to reconstitute the summary, and to 
seek out informalities, calling the attention of the 
court to details, some of which were insignificant. 
He made no attempt, as he should have done, to set 
forth the character of the plaintiff, to throw into re- 
lief the chronically topsy-turvy state of her nervous 
system, the surprising violence of her feelings, in 
love as well as in hate, the sickly susceptibility of 
her self-love, which seemed to be deprived of skin 
and to have its live flesh always exposed ; he made 
no attempt, in short, to seek the orgin, the real 
genesis of this strange accusation. 


344 


FAITH, 


He talked for about an hour and a half. When 
he finished, both court and spectators were visibly 
fatigued. The prosecutor briefly rectified several 
errors of fact. The counsel for the defense sus- 
tained them, as was his manner, with great length 
and probity. So that the weariness produced by 
his first discourse was notably increased by the 
second. 

Finally the president rang his bell and addressing 
the accused he said : 

“ In view of the proofs which have been produced 
and the remarks of the lawyers, has the accused 
anything to say to the court?” Father Gil rose 
from his bench and cast round the hall a gaze which 
was as gentle as it was vague. He looked as though 
he had been roused from a dream. He paused 
several minutes before he spoke. A deep and 
anxious silence reigned in the audience. In spite of 
the unfavorable atmosphere which had been formed 
around him, his delicate, poetic face, which 
beamed with humility, could not but produce a 
favorable impression. 

“ I am innocent of the crime which is imputed to 
me. I now leave my sentence in the hands of God, 
where I have long left all my thoughts and cares. 
May His will be done.” 

These simple words, uttered with deliberation, 
caused an electric commotion in the audience. For 
an instant, they caught a glimpse of the truth, as 
though in a flash of lightning. But darkness de- 
scended upon the court room once more, and grew 
thick within even the most perspicacious minds. 


FAITH. 


345 


There were not lacking some who muttered that 
priests, however wicked they may be, always have 
these words on their lips. The president answered 
him with his customary accuracy. “ Good ; God 
will judge hereafter, for the present, we will pro- 
nounce judgment on you.” 


XV. 


The tribunal of men condemned him to fourteen 
years, eight months, and one day of imprisonment. 

The official of the court who went to read his 
sentence to him in jail, felt it incumbent upon him 
to lavish consolation upon him. The case was not 
desperate. The Supreme Court might yet break 
the sentence. If this did not happen, he was still 
young and would certainly return from prison, above 
all when the rebates of time which the government 
grants now and then were taken into consideration, 
and so forth, and so forth. 

“ Thanks, thanks, sir,” said the priest, whose face 
expressed a profound calm, a deep serenity which 
arrested the attention. “You think me very un- 
happy, do you not?” 

“Very, you inspire me with great pity,” replied 
the official of the court with a face of compunc- 
tion. 

“So that you would not change places with 
me at this moment? ” 

The official made a grimace of amazement. 

“ Unfortunately — you will understand. It’s a ter- 
rible case ! ” 

Father Gil continued to gaze steadfastly at him 
for a moment, with a gentleness which was not ex- 
empt from pity, and finally said, as he laid his hand 
on the man’s shoulder : 

346 


FAITH. 


347 


“ Then you would do badly, sir, you would do 
badly. You might well give your liberty, your 
honor, your position, and your family, to find your- 
self in the state which I am in. And you would 
still be the winner to an enormous extent. 

The official stared at him in stupor. A gleam of 
uneasiness flashed through his eyes ; he was afraid 
that he had to do with a madman, and he made 
haste to take leave and quit the room. 

The priest was left alone. The cell was dark and 
dirty. An iron bedstead, a small pine table, a 
shabby chest of drawers, a few straw-seated chairs 
composed the entire furniture. Through the one 
grated window which lighted it, and opened high 
up in the wall, a sheaf of sun rays entered at that 
moment. After standing motionless for a moment, 
in a pensive attitude. Father Gil walked over and 
placed himself in these rays. His blond head, sud- 
denly illuminated, shone with golden reflections, his 
white skin acquired singular transparency. His 
fine, thin body, clad in a black cassock, seemed a 
column of ebony destined to sustain that head. 

He allowed himself to be inundated by the warm 
flood, drinking in its sweetness, palpitating under 
its caress like a captive bird. He raised his eyes to 
the window. Between the bars he saw the blue of 
the firmament, transparent, infinite, inviting one to 
fly through it. 

The heavens smiled. But more joyously than 
the heavens smiled his soul, inundated with intoxi- 
cating delight. The infinite azure gleamed in the 
depths of his being. Since Grace had visited him, 


348 


FAITH. 


he had dwelt in a perpetual festival. His eyes, ab- 
ruptly illuminated, contemplated the universe in its 
ideal nature. All the veils stretched by reason had 
fallen to the ground, the great secret of existence 
had revealed itself to him directly, with admirable 
clearness and purity. 

Behind this apparent life which surrounds us, 
he behel^ the real life, infinite life, and entered in- 
to it, his heart swelling with joy. In that infinite 
life all is love, or what is the same thing, all is bliss. 
To enter into it is to set one’s foot in the empire of 
eternity. It is the life of the Spirit. The world 
cannot change it, nor can time destroy it, since it is 
the very principle of time and of the world. He 
tasted life in God ; he dwelt beyond time in the 
very ideal and perenial fountain of the imaginative 
world, which surrounds us. His days did not slip 
past, sad and anxious, as a portion of time. He 
no longer suffered the torment of his will ; he did 
not breathe forth pitiful complaints over his sins, 
his vanquished resolutions, for he no longer 
loved his own works, however poor they might be, 
as heretofore, but the Eternal only. For works 
have their origin in the person, and he had got rid 
of his ; he had denied it with firmness. He let God 
work within his spirit amid a holy and sweet indif- 
ference. Forever released from doubt and uncer- 
tainty, he knew that he had, henceforth, but one 
thing to desire, and that all the rest would be added 
to him. He was sure that the fountain of divine 
love which had sprang up in him would never run 
dry, and that that love would guide him eternally. 


FAITH. 


349 


The fear of destruction by death no longer disturbed 
him. Death had become incomprehensible to him 
since he had entered into the life of eternity. He 
did not need to descend to the tomb to obtain that 
eternal life. It was sufficient to unite himself to 
God in his heart, in order to possess it and enjoy it. 

He had discovered, in short, once for all, that man 
cannot save himself from paii\ and death by reason, 
but by faith, that is, by a consciousness distinct from 
and superior to that which reason can give us. As 
soon as this consciousness illuminated his spirit, he 
had attained absolute felicity. Without uneasiness 
as to the future, with feeling for the past, craving 
nothing, refusing nothing, his life, for some time 
past, had flowed by like a happy dream, like a sweet 
intoxication. He let fall the load of desires, and 
the sorrows which bound him to the earth. Freed 
from all illusions and from all efforts, without fears 
of annihilation or egotistical hopes of resurrection, 
by the virtue of faith and love, had he discovered how 
to produce in his soul the real kingdom of God. 

He remained thus motionless, receiving the warm 
kiss of the star of day only for a few moments. He 
speedily said to himself that this was an enjoyment 
of the senses, and with a gesture of disdain, he went 
away and seated himself in the darkest corner of 
the chamber. Only by renouncing pleasures, only 
by seeking suffering and ruling over his feelings, 
had he aimed at the state of beatitude, of sublime 
indifference. 

“ Why do I need the rays of this sun,” he said to 
himself, “ if the fire which burns within my soul warms 


350 


FAITH. 


and comforts me better? What avails this ephem- 
eral light, compared with that other which will never 
be obscured? To live in the life of the senses is to 
be a slave of time and necessity. All that pertains 
to the free and internal being which I have suc- 
ceeded in finding within me, is strange and indiffer- 
ent. Oh, no! I will no longer tremble like a slave. 
I possess the consciousness of my liberty. I have 
no need to die to recover it. This sentiment of my 
liberty fills me with delight, I am emancipated and 
bear imprinted in my soul the seal of my God. 
Nothing that happens, nothing that will happen, can 
change the peace of my heart. The pulse of my 
inward life will beat with the same force until the 
hour for leaving this world shall strike. I have eaten 
the flesh and drunk the blood of the Redeemer, and 
according to His promises I dwell in Him and He 
dwells in me. I am a child of eternity. I have 
entered into the inheritance of my Father, and no 
one, no one shall wrest it from me ! ” 

The bolt on the door rattled noisily. The jailer 
appeared, a bulky man with a red face, sensual eyes, 
dirty, greasy garments, and around his prominent 
stomach a broad leather belt garnished with keys. 
Without saying ‘‘ good-day ” or making the slight- 
est sign of courtesy, he turned his face to the passage, 
saying : 

*‘Come in, gentlemen, come in.” 

Behind him appeared two gentlemen in frock 
coats and round hats. One was tall, blond, with a 
long beard which reached half-way down his chest, 
with a frank and sympathetic countenance ; he was 


FAITH. 


351 


still young. The other, who was shorter and more 
slender, was of sickly complexion, and had beard 
and spectacles. The first was a distinguished 
physician of the town. The second, a jurist greatly 
devoted to penal studies, who had already published 
several monographs referring to them. 

Father Gil rose when he saw them. They sa- 
luted him courteously, though they did not offer to 
shake hands. 

‘‘ Good ; I leave you here with the pater said 
the jailer roughly. “ Give me notice when you wish 
to come out,” and he went away. 

The lawyer advanced a pace toward the con- 
demned man, and said to him with an amiable 
smile : 

“We should like, if it would not inconvenience 
you, to put a few questions to you.” 

“ I am at your service,” replied the priest, fixing 
upon them a limpid gaze which thoroughly upset 
their equanimity. 

The doctor also came forward, and pulling out 
his leather case, offered him a good cigar, at the 
same time asking: 

“ How goes it? Do they treat you well here?” 

“Many thanks, I do not smoke. Yes, sir, they 
treat me well. There is more charity in prison than 
is ordinarily stated.” 

An animated conversation ensued. Both the 
lawyer and the physician strove to render it increas- 
ingly intimate and familiar, inquiring with interest 
into the details of his daily life. Then they passed 
on imperceptibly to questions concerning his 


352 


FAITH. 


childhood, his first impressions of life, his education, 
and paused in particular over his young manhood. 
What had been his life in the seminary? Had he 
been fond of solitude ? What illnesses had he had? 
They also informed themselves on certain details 
referring to his family. His mother’s suicide at- 
tracted their attention in particular, and they enter- 
tained themselves for a long time by questioning 
him as to all he knew of the person who had given 
him birth. Finally, after a conversation of an hour, 
during which they had stared at him with the per- 
tinacious persistency of a person who is going to 
buy an animal, the physician said : 

“ Will you now permit us to take some data con- 
cerning your skull and other measures ? ” 

Father Gil, though somewhat surprised, immedi- 
ately consented. The doctor drew from the rear 
pocket of his coat a craniometer and a tape meas- 
ure. 

He took the dimension of his skull in circumfer- 
ence, then that of the osseous case which protects 
the brain, that of the facial angle, the length of his 
face; he measured the facial and parietal projection, 
the zygomatics, and the jaw. 

On arriving at this point, lawyer and doctor ex- 
changed a rapid and significant glance. 

“ Do us the favor to extend your arms ? ” 

Father Gil assumed the attitude of the cross, while 
a gentle and melancholy smile hovered on his lips. 
They measured the length of his arms. Then that 
of his hands. At this point the physician and jurist 
exchanged another glance of intelligence. 


FAITH. 


353 


At last, as soon as they had found out all that 
they wished, they took a very courteous leave of 
him, thanking him greatly for his amiability and 
trying to encourage him with good arguments. 

On the following day there appeared in The Fu- 
ture of Lancia, signed by the criminal lawyer, an ar- 
ticle entitled : “A visit to Father Gil.” It contained 
an exact report of the interview, described minutely 
the person of the condemned priest, and ended 
with a series of profound scientific reflections con- 
cerning the anatomical, pathological, and physio- 
logical character presented by the delinquent. 

“ Among the anthropometric data common to 
criminals,” said the writer in one of his paragraphs, 
“ we have been able to observe only a certain slight 
predominance of the parietal projection compared 
with the frontal line, and considerable opening of 
the zygomatic arches and of the. jaw. On the other 
hand. Father Gil presents in his face absolutely all 
the traits which the positive criminal school assigns 
as peculiar to ravishers and libertines ; that is to say : 
the curtain of the ear prominent and inserted in the 
manner of a handle, brilliant eyes, a delicate physi- 
ognomy (with the exception of the jaw), smooth 
hair, a soft skin, very large hands, and something 
effeminate about the whole person.” 


THE END. 







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'- . ■ '# i A r I 


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RECOLLECTIONS AND LETTERS 


OF 

ERNEST RENAN, 

Author of “ The Life of Christ,” etc., etc. Translated 
from the French by Isabel F. Hapgood. i vol. 
i2mo, extra cloth, gilt top, $1.50. 



The present volume is one of uncommon interest, both from the 
character of its contents and from the fact that it is, without doubt, 
the author’s final collection of personal reminiscences. 

“ An important volume in revealing more fully a remarkable man who has been 
harshly judged by some, as all strong men must be.” — Boston Times. 

“ The book throughout is a revelation of the man — of his greatness as well as his 
limitations.” — Ne%u York Herald. 

” As a sort of sequel to the ‘ Souvenirs d' Enfance' this compilation is in its 
way equally delightful.” — New York World. 

‘‘Interesting to all who share in the deeper thought of the tunes.” — Phila^ 
deiphia Public Ledger. 

‘‘ The volume is a delightful one.” — Boston Traveller. 

” Abundant food for thought.” — Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 

” Full of interest.” — Public Opinion. — Washington and New York. 

‘‘ Every page sparkles with epigrams.” — Springfield Republican. 

” Will have the value of its authorship and the distinctive quality of a style 
second to none in vivacity, fluency, and force.” — Philadelphia Press. 

‘‘Cannot fail to impress any reader with the remarkable career and personality of 
lb* author.” — Portland Transcript. 

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I SAW THREE SHIPS, 

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NOUGHTS AND CROSSES. 

STORIES, STUDIES, AND SKETCHES. 

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“ Some of the sketches in the present volume are surpassed by nothing in the 
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DEAD MAN’S ROCK. 

A ROMANCE. 

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THE SPLENDID SPUR. 

Being Memoirs of the Adventures of Mr. John Marvel, a Ser- 
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TROY TOWN. 

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47 


Shall Girls Propose? 

AND OTHER PAPERS ON 

LOVE AND MARRIAGE. 

BY 

A “SPECULATIVE BACHELOR.” 


1 Volume f New and Unique Style, Extra Cloth, 
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mercial Adverliser. 

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cover.” — American Bookseller. 

“Unique, delightful Exhaustive— but far from exhaust- 
ing Whoever reads the entertaining little volume will be 

repaid.” — New York Epoch. 

“ Strange topics for a bachelor to choose on which to exercise his 
literary powers ! But he has acquitted himself admirably.” — Chicago _ 
Times, , 

“The author is never frivolous, although his touch is light and 
merry.” — Boston Times. 

“ Very much to the point.” — Boston Beacon. 


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' WORKS OF 

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THE DIAMOND BUTTON: WHOSE WAS IT ? 

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JACK GORDON, KNIGHT-ERRANT, GOTHAM, 1883. 

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By the Author of “Is Life Worth Living ?’’ 


A HlfflAN DOCUMENT. 

A NOVEL. 

BY 

W. H. MALLOCK. 


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One of the most widely read books in the English language was 
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greater popularity. 

It purports to be founded upon a journal written by a woman and 
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suggested, as the title shows, by “The Journal of Marie Bashkirt- 
seff.” It is not, however, written in the journal form. Here and 
there extracts from the journal are printed, but the story is told by 
Mr. Mai lock, and it is the best thing, in the way of fiction, yet 
produced by its well-known author. 


“ Boldly and powerfully written.” — Chicago Times. 

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jective standpoint, and delight in the analysis of the various passions.” — Boston 
Courier. 

“ An artistic delineator of human character.” — Toledo Bee. 

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THE CHARMING AND POPULAR 


WORKS OF MRS. L. T. MEADE. 


Very few authors have achieved a popularity equal to that of 
Mrs. Meade as a writer of stories for young people. Her characters 
are living beings of flesh and blood, not lay figures of conventional 
type. Into the trials, crosses, in short the everyday experiences of 
these, the reader enters at once with zest and hearty sympathy. 
While Mrs. Meade always writes with a high moral purpose, her les- 
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by example than intruded as sermons. 


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59 


** -Even virtue is more fair when it appears in a beautiful 
person '" — ViRGiL. 

m LADY’S DRESSING ROOM. 

. _ A Manual of the Toilet. 

Adapted from the French of the Baronne Staffe. With an Intn 
duction and Notes by Harriet Hubbard Ayer. 

One YoL, 16mo, with Portrait, Dainty Binding, Gilt Top, $1.60. 

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tical book for women.” — Abew York Herald. " 

“ Should have a place upon every toilet table.” — Boston Beaeon. 

“ A study of thiswise, comprehensive, and intelligible book will be 
most helpful to every woman who desires the health and beauty God 
designed she should possess.” — Chicago Saturday Evening Herald. 
“Excellent and useful.” — Brooklyn Standard- Union. 

“Very complete.” — Arthur's Home Magazine. 

“ An admirable manual.” — New York Hofne Journal. 

“ Of real practical value.” — Boston Home Journal. 

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“Full of information upon all questions pertaining to the femi- 
nine toilet.” — Chicago Tribune. 

“ Commends itself to the attention of every woman who desires to 
appear at her best.” — Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 

“ Practical, useful.” — Washington Post. 

“ Valuable and entertaining.” — New York Recorder. 

“ Contains much good advice.” — Boston Times. 

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“ A vast amount of useful information.” — Philadelphia Item, 

“ Attractive without as well as within.” — Boston Traveller, 

Cassell Publishing Company, 

104 & 106 FOURTH AVE, - NEW YORK. 


IN A STEANEB CHAIR 

And Other Shijtboard Stories, 

BY 

ROBERT BARR. 

(Luke Sharp.) 

One Volume, i2mo, Cloth, 75 cts.; Paper, 50 cts. 


Mr. Robert Barr is the latest, but not the least, of 
latter-day humorists. His wit is typically American 
(although he is a Canadian), which means that it is 
spontaneous and convincing. His book is bubbling 
over with fun, and will make many a dull hour merry. 

“ Of much merit All flavored with sea breezes.” 

— Boston Courier, 

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merited fame.” — Detroit Journal. 

“ All bright and interesting.” — Boston Home Journal. 

“ Excellent . . . racy and characteristic.” — Boston Times. 

“ Exceedingly entertaining.” — Detroit Sunday News. 

“ \ charming book in every way.” — Philadelphia Item. 

“ Well told and very interesting.’’ — Illustrated Christian Weekly. 

“ The author’s familiarity with life on board the steamships plying 
between the United States and Europe is utilized in this volume with 
exceedingly happy results.” — Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 


For Sale by all Booksellers, 

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104 d: 106 Fourth .Avenue, New York. 


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